


you be my fire and I'll be your gasoline

by longing-and-heartache-and-lust (the_ressurectionist)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventures!, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belleteyn, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, SO MUCH TEASING, Teasing, feral Jaskier!, game!Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, hunting!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ressurectionist/pseuds/longing-and-heartache-and-lust
Summary: "It's a different realm," the witcher finally chuckles. "Where, apparently, there's another version of me and - I take it - another version of Dandelion, which is you."Of course, Jaskier knows that there is such a thing as travelling through realms. He knows that - if the theories are true - every star in the night sky is a different realm, a different time, that can be both similar or completely different to the one he's used to.And still, it hardly sounds believable."First of all, my dear wayfarer, my name is Jaskier," he says, getting it together. "Second of all... are you actually telling me that you're Geralt? Geralt of Rivia, the witcher I've been travelling with for almost a decade now?""Exactly like that," the witcher nods, getting another swig of his ale. "Well, almost exactly. I am, in fact, Geralt of Rivia, a witcher, but I'm not the one that you've been travelling with. I'm his other version."orshow!Jaskier meets game!Geralt and they just cannot get enough of each other
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 154
Kudos: 920





	1. a night hunt

The tavern is filled with people.

It's a hot spring night, a few hours after the sunset, and the entire room - rather spacious, to the innkeeper's credit - is packed with both men and women of all ages, unwinding after a long day of work and catching up on the latest gossip, drunk to a various degree. 

A lot of them, as Jaskier notices, get more and more sentimental the more they drink, and it's now been long enough since the evening started, so pretty much the entire audience he's playing for is listening to his ballads intently and closely, women wiping at their eyes and sighing deeply when he plays one of his tragic and sweet love songs. 

It's only a few nights before Belleteyn and Jaskier can feel it in the heavy tavern air. The heat, the anticipation, the thrill. 

He tries his luck and sings "A Fishmonger's Daughter" which ends up being an absolute triumph, the entire tavern - including the innkeeper and both his daughters working by the bar - singing along and clapping so loud that Jaskier can barely hear himself. 

Honouring the tradition, he ends his performance with "Toss a coin" and that, somehow, gets him an even louder response, everyone so familiar with his greatest ballad that their voices sound like one. 

It flatters Jaskier, just like it always does, and he can't help but beam a smile at the crowd as he collects his coin and jumps down from the table that he's been sitting on. 

His fingers hurt from a few hours of playing, but it's a nice, comforting, familiar pain. Over so many years as a bard, he'd grown so used to it that it felt weird _not_ to feel it. 

Making his way to the bar and smiling at the guest that pat his shoulders, touch his elbows or make toasts in his honour, he finally finds a vacant seat and sits down, with a motion of his wrist asking one of the pretty barmaids for a glass of Est Est. If everything goes as planned, it's her that he's going to spend the May Night with. If everything goes even better, her sister is also going to be there. 

"It's a nice ballad," he hears an unfamiliar voice say. "Isn't true, though."

Jaskier turns to face the owner of the voice and for a second, his heart stops beating completely. 

White hair, golden eyes, two swords. 

No, he tells himself immediately, Don't be ridiculous, you know what Geralt looks like and this is not it. Plus, Geralt is somewhere in Cidaris. 

"How would you know?" he asks, washing down the lump in his throat with a sip of his wine. 

The man looks at him for a few seconds, just studying and Jaskier can't help but bite his lip under the gaze of those tentative eyes. 

"How can I not?" he finally says, letting Jaskier go and switching his attention to his own drink. "After all, I've been there."

Jaskier snickers, waves a hand dismissively and leans back on the stool he's sitting on. 

"I'm sorry, darling," he says, trying to place the weird feeling in his chest like he's being pulled towards the stranger. "I think I would've noticed if there was someone aside from me and Geralt."

The man turns to him, eyes glowing softly in the dim light. Somehow, Jaskier realises, the scar on his face only makes him more attractive. 

"Exactly," he says. "On that entire Dol Blathanna adventure, it was only me and Dandelion. Frankly, I'm quite surprised that you even know the thing, he was never happy with his ballad so there weren't a lot of people who've heard it. My guess is you've heard one of the versions and made your own song, based on that, am I right?"

Jaskier looks at him, unblinking. 

Then, looks suspiciously at the glass of Est Est he's holding as if trying to figure out if that's the whole deal. 

"Listen," he finally says and he wants to sound tired but he cannot, not with those eyes on him. "I don't know if you've had a little too much ale or if you're playing pretend or something like that, but I wrote that song because that is how I met Geralt, eight years ago. If, for whatever reason, you believe that I took inspiration from some Dandelion - which is a ridiculous name but that's not the point - well, I've heard worst things about my music."

Again, for a few seconds, there's silence between them, and even if somewhere very deep in his mind Jaskier wants to leave, he can't bring himself to, studying the stranger's swords and armour. He's clearly a witcher but even so, there's something unusual about him. Something about his eyes, hidden by the winter-white hair that brushes just below his cheekbones. 

"Fuck," he hears the man sigh, more to himself than for anyone else to hear. "Goddamn portals."

"Excuse me?"

"Portals," the man says again, louder. "I jumped through one, hoping it will simply take me somewhere outside Novigrad but it seems like the mage that had opened it for me doesn't really like me."

Still lost for answers, Jaskier sits up, brushes his knee over the stranger's, almost accidentally. 

"I still don't understand," he says, moving his stool just a little closer, not sober enough to think his actions through. 

"It's a different realm," the witcher finally chuckles, brushing his knee against Jaskier's in return, making a shiver run up the bard's spine. "Where, apparently, there's another version of me and - I take it - another version of Dandelion, which is you."

Of course, Jaskier knows that there is such a thing as travelling through realms. He knows that - if the theories are true - every star in the night sky is a different realm, a different time, that can be both similar or completely different to the one he's used to. The elections in Oxenfurt might've been boring but he listened, nonetheless, at least to a part of it.

And still, it hardly sounds believable. 

"First of all, my dear wayfarer, my name is Jaskier," he says, getting it together. "Second of all... are you actually telling me that you're Geralt? Geralt of Rivia, the witcher I've been travelling with for almost a decade now?"

"Exactly like that," the witcher nods, getting another swing of his ale. "Well, almost exactly. I am, in fact, Geralt of Rivia, a witcher, but I'm not the one that you've been travelling with. I'm his other version."

Jaskier feels like his head is ringing. 

It's just so much, all at once, and he has to take in a deep calming breath to clear out his head and decide that he might as well just enjoy the situation. 

He takes another look at the witcher: winter-white hair, much lighter and much shorter than Geralt's - _this realm_ Geralt's - a scar going over his forehead, left eye and cheekbone, narrower frame, different swords, a different attitude.

"You don't look like him," Jaskier finally says.

Geralt takes a long look at him, moves his arm over the countertop in a way that would allow the bard to touch him if he wanted but still completely casual. 

"You don't look like Dandelion, either," he shrugs. "The only thing you've got in common with him looks-wise is the colour of your eyes. Cornflower-blue, just like his."

Somewhere deep down, Jaskier still doesn't believe him because he's unable to rationalise the fact that this is actually happening to him. 

He moves a little closer, their elbows now touching, makes himself look as relaxed as possible even though there's a spark of heat that runs up his spine at the touch. 

"Tell me something that only Geralt would know, and then you can consider me convinced."

The witcher gives him another look, takes him up and down and then grins, showing off sharp canine and Jaskier would never in his life admit it but that grin makes him want to take the witcher straight to his bedroom that exact moment and it doesn't really matter if he is who he says he is. 

That grin, though, that's Geralt's grin. 

"Alright," the man says, leaning back in his stool. "Your song is untrue because back then, in Dol Blathanna, I got my ass kicked by the elves; pretty hard, I might add. Your arch-nemesis is Valdo Marx and if you had one wish granted to you, you'd wish for him to die horribly," he watches Jaskier's reaction carefully as he speaks, twisting his arm just a little to run his fingers over the back of the bard's hand. "And finally, your real name is Julian. More officially: Viscount Julian de Lettenhove. Does that sound like something only Geralt would know?"

Concentrated on the witcher's fingers on his hand much more than on his words, Jaskier nods, nonetheless. 

Fuck, he thinks, Seducing someone with just one touch is usually my game.

"It's a lot to take in," he smiles, as charmingly as he can, lifting his gaze to lock it with the witcher's. "Geralt of Rivia."

I'm gone, he thinks, Gone completely. 

"Would it make it easier if I bought you a drink?"

Before he can stop himself, Jaskier bites his lip, shifts a little closer, so that their knees are touching.

"It might."

***

"Where is he, anyway?" the witcher asks when they decide that the tavern is too muggy and head outside, into the warm spring night. " _Your_ Geralt?"

They're walking close, almost shoulder to shoulder, and when Jaskier, not being very sober, decides to jump up onto a short fence to see if he can walk on it, Geralt holds his hand for balance.

"He's not mine," Jaskier chuckles, brushing his hair out of his face. "And he's somewhere in Cidaris, from what he'd told me."

His foot slips for just a second, but it's enough for the witcher's other arm to wrap around his hips, holding him in place. Jaskier nearly blushes at that but bats the man away, finding his balance again and holding on to his hand just a little tighter. 

"Then why aren't you with him?"

Jaskier reaches the end of the fence, jumps down from it and lets go of the witcher's hand, though reluctantly. 

"Don't really feel like following him that far. Besides, we usually only spend a few weeks at a time together."

"He gets jealous of you flirting with other men like you are with me?" Geralt teases, and it's so effortless that this time around Jaskier does blush. 

He smiles but doesn't avert his eyes. "You started it."

"Of course I did."

Gods, Jaskier thinks, He says more in five minutes than this realm's Geralt says in days. Flirts so effortlessly, playing with me, teasing with those little touches of his and fuck, it's working. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he gets another look at the witcher, notices the way his white hair reflects the moonlight, the way all the buckles of his armour shine in it, notices that he's got more weapons on him than Jaskier's used to. But no matter how long he looks, he can't figure out what exactly it is that draws him in so much until finally, he realises that it's _everything_. 

He ends up getting so lost in trying to sort out his emotions that it's only when they're already by the stables that the bard realises that that's been their destination all along. 

"Are we going somewhere?" he asks, knowing that it's unwise to follow strangers into the night but then again, it's not really a stranger. 

Geralt turns to him, takes him up and down like he's trying to decide whether or not he should take the bard wherever it is that he's going. 

"I've got a contract nearby," he finally says, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. "A nightwraith, from what I've heard. And probably a few nekkers or ghouls as a tag-along. Not sure if I'll be able to keep you safe, nightwraiths are a fucking torture to fight."

Jaskier snorts loudly at that but clasps a hand over his mouth immediately not to wake anyone up. 

"Oh, Witcher," he says, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "I appreciate your concern but I'm plenty able to protect myself."

Geralt's amber eyes light up with amusement. 

"Oh, are you?" he asks. "Are you really?"

Watch me, Jaskier wants to say but stops himself from drawing the dagger hidden in his boot and smiles charmingly, instead. 

"Why don't you take me with you and let me prove it?" he suggests. 

It's not like he's particularly excited to go on a hunt after a long evening of performing but he doesn't want to let the witcher go without him, doesn't want to just go back to his room when they can stay together, hunting or not. Furthermore, he knows how adrenaline affects people - even witchers - and he's oh so eager to see what it will all lead to. 

Geralt looks at him for a few seconds, his expression absolutely unreadable but then, finally, shrugs with one shoulder. 

"I took Dandelion on more hunts than I can think of and he's always been fine, so how bad can it be?"

That's enough of a permission for Jaskier, so he doesn't wait any longer, just follows the witcher to the stables where, he assumes, Roach is kept together with his own horse. It's just the two of them, even the stablehands long gone to get some sleep, and for a second Jaskier feels an irrational fear that Geralt will somehow hear his thoughts because all he can think of is just how much he wants the witcher to press his up the nearest beam and do absolutely anything he wants to him. 

Jaskier's always been easy at his affections, and it's not at all unusual for him to want someone after just a few smiles and touches, but this... This is different. Stronger, sharper, almost an ache. 

He can barely wrap his head around the thought of the witcher in front of him being _Geralt,_ just a different version of him, but the longer he looks, the more he sees it. 

And the thing is, he's in love with Geralt.

"Come," the witcher says, extending an arm towards Jaskier. "Meet Roach."

Oh, Jaskier thinks, This is definitely new. 

Roach turns out to be pretty much an exact copy of herself, except for the mark on her forehead being slightly smaller. 

"Does your Geralt also call his horse Roach?" the witcher enquires, scratching the mare behind her ear and smiling at her in the most affectionate of ways.

"He's not-" Jaskier starts but then cuts himself short, thinking that if there's anything that he knows about Geralt is that it's useless to argue with him. "He does."

Out of habit, he doesn't touch the horse because over the years he'd travelled with Geralt, the witcher had seemingly grown only more protective of his mare, claiming - very drunk - that she's the only one that his heart belongs to. Granted, Jaskier didn't really give a shit about the prohibition to touch her and, when Geralt wasn't really looking or didn't really care, brushed her and played with her, braiding her mane and forelocks, never missing an opportunity to press a kiss or two to her soft muzzle. 

And yet, he doesn't reach his hand out because, well... it's not his horse. 

And again, Geralt has him pleasantly surprised. 

"Come on," he says, nudging at the bard's elbow. "Pet her."

Jaskier obeys gladly, letting Roach sniff his hand first and then running his fingers through her long forelocks that are just _asking_ to be braided. The horse nips at his sleeve affectionately, nickers as he laughs and pats her neck gently. 

"See," Geralt says, his hand brushing over Jaskier's hip as he steps closer. "She loves you already."

The thing is, Jaskier is very good at seducing people.

Ever since the Academy, he'd learned to get people into his bed with only a little more than a move of his wrist, always so perfect with his words and smiles and just the right kind of attention, both men and women falling madly in love with him for one evening - or much longer - from just one touch of his hand. 

And yet, Geralt _plays_ with him. 

Makes his breath catch with every touch, sending little sparks up and down his spine.

"She's lovely," the bard smiles, not acknowledging the touch because he's not giving up that easy. 

He turns to face Geralt, suddenly realising that he's slightly taller to what he's used to, runs a gentle hand down his chest, his fingers catching on the straps and buckles, lifts his gaze, standing so close that if he were to lean in just a little closer, he'd be able to kiss him. 

The witcher watches him, that same little smirk on his lips and doesn't interfere but doesn't make any move to close in the distance between them, either. 

Making an effort over himself, Jaskier bites his lips and smiles, taking a step back because it's just too fun to see how long they can last. 

"I've got a horse of my own here," he says, the casual tone hiding his quickened heartbeat. "Come on."

Geralt follows him with no questions, lets the bard guide him past the other stables, almost to the end of the row. 

"Hey there, love," Jaskier smiles, getting both his hands into the mane of his stallion, black as a raven's wing. "You want to go on a little ride?"

The horse nickers at him softly, nudges the bard with his muzzle, making him laugh and press a kiss onto it. 

"That's Cerbin," he says. "The lord of my heart."

"Cerbin?" Geralt repeats, extending his hand for the horse to sniff. "'Raven'?"

Jaskier nods. "In Elder, yeah."

The stallion is gorgeous. Tall, strong, his wavy mane hanging lusciously past his shoulders. He doesn't look like a horse that's easy to control nor does he look like one that can be tamed, at all and yet, he and the bard seem deeply connected. 

For a long time, the stallion sniffs Geralt's hand, ears flicking back and forth, then snorts and jerks his head, unimpressed. 

"Cerbin-" Jaskier clicks his tongue, narrowing his eyes at the horse disapprovingly. 

With another snort and a few more flicks of his ears, but Cerbin allows the witcher to touch him, growing significantly more fond of him when Geralt offers him a sugar cube.

"Where do you buy such a beauty nowadays?"

Every time someone asks him a similar question, Jaskier can't help but grin, so very proud of himself. 

"You don't," he says. "I won him. He's an elven horse and it just so happened that three years ago I had the luck of stumbling upon a group of elves that had a surprising weakness for gambling. I'll have you know that I'm rather good at Gwent, so when they offered a few rounds, I couldn't say "no"."

Geralt gives him a look like he doesn't believe a word.

"Elves that play with a human? Hardly believable."

Jaskier makes a face at him and shoos the witcher away from Cerbin, having decided that if he doesn't believe him that his privileges at touching his horse had been revoked.

"Look at me, Geralt," he says, making a wide gesture at himself. "Do I _absolutely_ look human? With an elven lute behind my back?"

Geralt considers it. "You don't."

"That's better," Jaskier nods but still doesn't let Geralt back to his horse, brushing his fingers through his long forelocks. "As I was saying, after the first few rounds of betting money, we've decided to get the stakes up a bit higher. The elf I've been playing with wanted my lute. I wanted his horse - Cerbin was barely old enough to ride him back then - and even though I knew that if I lost, I'd probably twist myself inside out and die miserably, the moment I saw Cerbin, I knew he was meant for me."

"Was it a fair game?" the witchers asks and before the bard knows it, Geralt already wraps his arms around him from behind, noses at his neck, and Jaskier's knees _go weak_. 

He manages to bite back a moan but only just, Geralt's breath hot on his neck, one of his hands slipping down to rest on the bard's thigh, and fuck, Jaskier is ready to let the witcher take him right there and then. 

"It was, believe it or not," he makes himself say, years of performing allowing him to control his voice. "Not an easy one, though. The elf was _not_ happy to lose his horse."

He knows that Geralt can hear his heartbeat and that there is no way to hide from him but before he can give in, the witcher lets him go, only the faintest brush of his lips over Jaskier's neck before he takes a step back. He teases Jaskier in a way that no one has ever teased him and _fuck_ , it's working. 

To recollect himself, Jaskier reaches for Cerbin's saddle and, balancing it on ane arm, opens the stable door, stepping inside only to have his hair immediately nipped at by the stallion. He laughs, runs a hand over his long neck, gets the saddle onto his back, not showing the effort that it takes to lift it that high. Cerbin was higher than most horses and for the first few months, Jaskier could barely get into the saddle without stepping on some sort of a rock or a log first. Granted, Geralt would help him up when they travelled together, never missing an opportunity to roll his eyes but there was never any real irritation in that gesture. 

Over time, though, Jaskier's gotten used to it and the more he trained, the better he controlled his body so now, when Cerbin is fully equipped for the ride, Jaskier jumps up into the saddle in one swift motion, making Geralt lift his brows in surprise. 

"What, are you gonna just stand there?" Jaskier teases, looking down at him. "Or are you gonna equip Roach and join me for a hunt?"

Geralt, that had been watching the bard the whole time he'd been equipping Cerbin, chuckles at that but goes back to his own horse, leaving Jaskier to wait outside. 

It's nearly midnight by now, the air pleasantly colder, and Jaskier takes in a deep breath, feeling the familiar soft thrum of anticipation for the hunt. The first few years he'd spent with Geralt, he couldn't call himself too much of a fan of such pastime but later, when he had demanded the witcher train him to wield a weapon, he grew rather fond of hunting, especially at night. 

Cerbin, knowing what a night ride means, is also full of anticipation, stepping from one leg to another impatiently, shaking out his long mane, and Jaskier has to pull on the reins gently, keeping him in place. He can feel the stallion's strength, can feel the ripples that go through his muscles as he runs a hand over his neck, and even though Jaskier has never been the one to lack confidence, when he's in the saddle, he feels like he could have the entire Continent at his feet if he wanted. 

"Patience, love," he says when Cerbin whips at his leg with his tail, snorting. "We can't go on a hunt without a witcher, can we?"

Not to keep Cerbin in place, Jaskier allows him to make a few around the stables, keeping the gait slow. 

"You've got an impatient horse," he hears Geralt say when they come back to where they've started. 

The witcher is already up in the saddle, as well, scratching at Roach's mane.

"He's young," Jaskier objects with a smile, protective as ever. "Not even five years old yet."

He comes closer, almost brushing his knee over Geralt's, gives him a little mischievous look out of the corner of his eye. 

"Race me to our destination point?"

Geralt chuckles at him, holds Roach back from biting at Cerbin's neck, reaches out to run his hand through the stallion's mane and it's almost believable that when it slips to Jaskier's thigh, it's an accident. 

"You don't even know where we're going."

It takes Jaskier a lot of self-control not to pull the witcher's hand even higher. 

"You can always tell me."

***

The graveyard they're looking for is not too far from the town so the ride isn't long but the fast canter clears Jaskier's head of the alcohol haze and by the time he stops Cerbin, he's as ready for a hunt as it gets. 

Roach, granted, is a fast horse and Geralt is an excellent rider but then again, Cerbin is an elven horse and when Jaskier allows him to use his full potential, he has to lean in close to the stallion's neck to keep his balance, the wind biting at his face. 

"Better luck next time, Witcher," the bard grins when Geralt stops Roach next to them, pulling on the reins.

Geralt rolls his eyes at him but smiles, jumping down from the saddle and not bothering with tying the reins to anything, letting the mare be. 

"You should be more careful," he says, narrowing his eyes and coming closer to brush his thumb over the bard's cheekbone. 

It stings and it's just now that Jaskier realises that he must've caught on some kind of a twig that had left behind a scrape. 

"Says a witcher."

Before Jaskier can lean into the touch, something behind them rustles, a branch snapping loudly and Geralt immediately turns in the direction of the sound, his silver sword already drawn. Jaskier, though his reactions aren't as fast, pulls his dagger out of his boot, flipping it to catch mid-air and wrap his fingers over the hilt tightly. 

He watches Geralt carefully: the way he listens to the sounds around them, knees bent slightly, his entire body ready for a fight; the way his eyes glow, reflecting the moonlight, the way his breathing gets so deep and calm that Jaskier can't hear it at all. 

The graveyard is quiet, tranquil, an old wooden church looming over in a long shadow. Then, something snaps again and a loud, pained wail tears through the air, so long and soul-wrenching that it makes Jaskier's skin crawl. 

"If you want to hunt," Geralt says quietly, without looking at him. "Take the ghouls. But don't get close to the nightwraith."

That's not the way Jaskier wants this to go. 

"My dagger is silver."

Again, Geralt doesn't turn to face him but Jaskier can see him square his shoulders. 

"She'll rip you apart before you even get close enough for your dagger to reach her," he says. "Don't tell me you've never seen a nightwraith before."

Reluctantly, but Jaskier has to give up. Not really because he's scared but because it's very hard to disobey when the witcher talks to him in _that_ voice.

Over the years, Jaskier's only seen a nightwraith a few times and though it doesn't shock him to see one now, he still feels a little shiver run down his spine. 

Before he knows it, Geralt casts Quen over himself and lunges forward, the runes on the blade of his sword glowing with a golden light. His moves are light, fast and deadly dangerous, and it's like a dance that Jaskier can barely tear his eyes away from. 

"Go," he tells Cerbin, slapping his croup lightly and sending the stallion away, further from the danger. 

He can hear the ghouls already, and he smells them before the sees them, a sickening stench of rotting flesh filling the air. 

There are four of them, appearing from behind the church, disgusting mouths with razor-sharp teeth dripping with drool, legs covered in dirt and rot. Jaskier fucking hates ghouls but he knows how to fight them, so he takes in a deep calming breath, ignoring the stench, gets his mind in order and, having picked out a rock that he likes the most, throws it right at the pack of beats, averting their attention from Geralt. 

"Show me what you've got," he grins, dagger shining in the moonlight, and it all moves fast from there.

He doesn't really have the time to look at the witcher, just hears the wails of the nightwraith, sees bright flashes of Yrden and the silvery mist of Moon Dust sparkling in the moonlight. 

The first two ghouls go down easily, clearly the youngest ones of the pack and, therefore, less experienced, they follow nothing but their hunger and it's easy for the bard to predict their moves, ducking away from the long claws and burying his dagger into the half-rotten skulls hilt-deep, the beasts collapsing to the ground before he even rips it back out. 

The other two, though, are bigger, older, more dangerous. They strike at once, making Jaskier jump back, nearly losing his balance, and he barely ducks away in time not to have one of the beats slash at his side. If he were less experienced, he wouldn't stand a chance but Jaskier knows what he's doing and the averted danger only makes the adrenaline in his veins burn hotter. 

Spinning three consecutive pirouettes, Jaskier gets himself further away from the fence, giving himself more space, rolls over, clenching his jaw at the thought of his clothes now being completely ruined, strikes upwards, slicing through the ghoul's chest and neck, spilling disgusting black blood all over the ground, kicks him in the side with as much strength as he can collect in himself, taking advantage of the beast being startled, and, when it falls, sinks his dagger into its jaw, right under the chin where the flesh is soft. 

"Fuck-" he breathes, wiping at his forehead with the back of his arm and twisting his torso to add more strength to the blow as he hears the last ghoul approach him. 

Jaskier's dagger sinks deep into the beast's shoulder and when Jaskier tries to rip it back out, he realises that it's gotten stuck, his heart sinking into his stomach for a long second. The ghoul jumps, making Jaskier lose his balance and fall onto his back, the ground cold beneath him. 

He knows Geralt's too far to make it in time and half-expects to feel the ghoul's claws rip through him, but then, for just an instant - for a fraction of time not even enough for one breath - the beast gets distracted with the knife in his shoulder, and it's enough for Jaskier to draw his second dagger, hidden in his doublet. 

There's not enough space for a good hit but Jaskier works with what he's got, slitting the beast's throat so deep that he can see the bones of his spine, and covering his face with his forearm to avoid as much blood as he can. 

The ghoul collapses onto him, making the bard gasp and kick him off, breathing heavily and staring up into the night sky, filled with stars. 

His heart is hammering in his chest, beating against the bard's ribcage so hard that it hurts and making his hands shake, but instead of trying to get as far away from the ghouls' corpses as he can, Jaskier throws his head back and laughs, feeling better than ever. He laughs so hard that it brings tears to his eyes and he doesn't even notice Geralt as he comes closer, yelping loudly when the witcher reaches out a hand to touch him. 

"I take it you're not hurt?" Geralt chuckles, grabbing Jaskier's arm to get him up to his feet but the bard pulls him down onto the ground, instead, still unable to stop laughing. 

"Oh, gods-" he finally manages, wiping at his eyes and reaching up to cup the sharp of Geralt's jaw. "Thought that was the end of me."

The witcher shakes his head, smiling, his winter-white hair falling into his face and finally, it hits Jaskier. 

"Your eyes-" he says, mesmerised. 

Geralt tilts his head slightly to the side, interested. 

"What about them?"

Jaskier pushes himself up from the ground, sitting up and cupping the witcher's face with both hands shamelessly to get a better look. Geralt's doesn't protest, though, allowing the bard to tip his chin up so that there's more light on his face. 

"Your eyes are like... a cat's."

The witcher seems genuinely surprised. 

"Aren't your Geralt's eyes the same?"

Jaskier shakes his head, brushes Geralt's hair out of his face, all of his attempts to tuck it behind his ears failing as the strands are not long enough. 

"They're not," he finally says, feeling a shiver run up his spine as Geralt brushes his fingers over his neck, wiping the blood away. "I mean, they're amber, like yours but his pupils are human."

"Mmm," he witcher hums, his other hand somewhere on Jaskier's knee, thumb brushing up and down. "Like this?"

Jaskier watches him tentatively, never breaking the eye contact, and he can feel his breath catch as Geralt's pupils widen, washing over the amber of his iris. For a few moments, his eyes look almost exactly the same to what Jaskier's used to before becoming cat-like once more, the pupils narrowing into vertical slits.

"How do you-" 

Geralt shrugs with one shoulder, that same grin on his lips that makes Jaskier wish he could just bite into those lips with a kiss. 

"Everyone's ought to have their little secrets."

If it wasn't for the fact that they're in the middle of a graveyard - and Jaskier had been taught to respect the dead - and that he's covered in ghoul's blood, he would've pushed the witcher down onto the ground and saddled his hips by now. If he didn't know any better, he would've bitten into his lips, unwilling and unable to wait any longer but before he can break under the weight of his own hunger, Geralt brushes his thumb over his cheek and gets up, offering Jaskier a hand. 

"Come on, bard," he chuckles. "Let's get back to the inn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you're wondering what Cerbin looks like, he's a Friesian horse and I might or might not give him a little too much attention over the upcoming chapters


	2. the fire Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the incredible support on the first chapter, it means the world to me

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Geralt asks as they are riding back to the little town, Cerbin and Roach biting at each other playfully every now and then.

They ride close, knees almost touching, and though Jaskier is dying to reach his hand towards the witcher, brush his fingers over his thigh to feel the strong muscles, he holds himself back because, still high on the adrenaline from the hunt, he feels like he won't be able to stop. 

"Geralt trained me at first, for quite a long time," he says, running his fingers through Cerbin's mane to have his hands busy with at least something. "And then it was just practice, really. I've spent a lot of time on my own, both in towns and on the Path, so I had to learn how to take care of myself properly."

Jaskier remembers the first months of training. 

Remember the exhaustion, the sore muscles, the bruises. 

And nonetheless, he always enjoyed learning, not letting the pain stop him. It's never been easy, all the failed attempts sometimes nearly bringing him to tears but the more they trained, the better he got, learning impressively fast. 

And eventually, pain and exhaustion turned into a thrill, into a low thrum of pleasure, the hot, intoxicating sensation of his own power making him feel like there's nothing that he can't do. Hunting and training turned into a game for him, and after less than two years, he just couldn't get enough. 

"I have to admit, though, getting myself into trouble has always been a talent of mine."

Geralt runs his gaze over the bard, over his blood-stained clothes and hands, expensive silk completely ruined, over the uneven splatter of blood on his face and neck, over both his daggers, silver shining in the moonlight. 

"It's not self-defence that's the main reason you've trained, though, is it?" he finally asks and it's more of a statement than it is a question. "It's hunting. You enjoy it." 

Jaskier does enjoy hunting.

He loves the thrill, the danger, the flashes of pure euphoria up his veins when a ghoul or a drowner or an endrega falls from his dagger. Loves the sparks that fly up his spine when a harpy or a siren crashes down, wings breaking, an arrow from his crossbow buried deep in its chest or head. The surge of adrenaline and oxytocin that makes his knees weak when an ekimma or a katakan collapses to his feet, having stained his sword with their thick, dark blood.

Loves the feeling of taking a beast's life and sensing it run through his veins. 

"I _adore_ hunting," the bard nods, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, still trying to get the ghoul's blood off.

The witcher gets another look at him, a grin pulling on the corner of his lips. 

"You're good with a weapon," he says, gesturing to the bard's daggers, little silver particles of Moon Dust still shining on his gloves. "Didn't really have the time to watch you, but I still got a few looks. A dagger looks good in your hand. Is that the only weapon you can wield?"

Making himself look as casual as ever, Jaskier shrugs with one shoulder, feeling his heartbeat quicken from having those tentative amber eyes on him. 

"I'm pretty good with a sword," he pulls slightly on Cerbin's reins to turn him into a narrower path running North. "And before I took on close combat, I've learned to shoot a crossbow."

Though the path that they turn into is not the one that leads into the town and Geralt knows that perfectly, he doesn't ask, just follows Jaskier's lead, staying a little behind not to brush over the low-hanging tree branches with his side. 

"Impressive," he says. "And who would've thought? Watching you perform, I didn't expect you to be a hunter."

Nobody expects me to be a hunter, Jaskier grins to himself, That's my advantage.

"It take it, your realm's version of me - that Dandelion of yours - isn't taught to fight, then?"

Geralt laughs quietly - a warm sound from somewhere deep in his chest that gets under Jaskier's skin and sends little sparks up his spine. 

"Trust me, I've tried to train him," he shakes his head. "He was absolutely useless at that. Guess not only do you look completely different, but there are overall more differences between you two than there are similarities."

It's past midnight by now, the forest around them quiet and tranquil, and beyond the soft rustling of the leaves, there's a close whisper of a river. Kicking lightly at Roach's sides, Geralt moves closer to the bard again, the path now wider.

"Do you want to water the horses or are we going for a night swim?" he chuckles, making Jaskier twist in the saddle and grin at him. 

"What, can't wait to see me undress?"

Jaskier wants oh so badly for the last word to be his. 

He's so used to making people blush with just one or two right phrases, used to playing with their emotions - not cruel in any way but just for a little fun - always the one to make it out as a winner.

But the witcher is a little more complicated than that, 

"Oh," he says, grinning back. " _Eager_."

Jaskier can feel his heart skip a beat at that but, having put his absolute everything into it, doesn't show it, just scoffs and nudges the witcher with his knee. 

"Well, if you're up for a swim then, by all means, go for it but I just want to wash the blood off before we return to the inn."

What he really wants right now is a hot bath with all kinds of salts and oils but before he can indulge in such a pleasure, he has to opt for the river which is probably incredibly cold, especially now, at night. But, having no other options because he is _not_ going to spend another _minute_ covered in ghoul's blood, he just has to brace himself. 

Geralt, being absolutely insufferable, shrugs with one shoulder. 

"Won't be any fun without you."

***

When they get to the riverbank, it turns out to be too steep for there to be any way for Jaskier to wash off the blood from his face and chest and arms without getting into the water at least knee-deep.

Jaskier had really been hoping for an easier way out but it doesn't look like there is any spot nearby where the bank is flat enough to allow that option, so all he can do is curse under his breath but jump down from the saddle, nonetheless. 

Geralt stops nearby and, since Roach seems highly interested in the river, dismounts and lets her go into the water where she is quickly joined by Cerbin.

"You'll get cold," the witcher says, leaning against the nearest tree and shaking little particles of Moon Dust out of his hair. "Sure you don't want to just get to the inn?"

Tugging off his blood-stained doublet, ruined beyond any reason and frowning at the fact, Jaskier turns to face the older man, trying very hard to concentrate on his task and not on the fire in his chest that burns hotter and hotter from not just every touch, but every look. 

"How are you expecting the innkeeper and the guests to look at me after I show up in the middle of the night, drenched in blood?" he asks, throwing his doublet to Geralt just because he can, all confidence and sparks in his eyes. "Besides, I've got you to keep me warm, don't I?"

Geralt catches the doublet with one hand, the movement so quick that Jaskier barely notices it. "Most certainly."

The way Geralt looks at him makes Jaskier want to close in the distance between them - that's already pretty much non-existent - get both his hands into that gorgeous white hair and kiss the witcher harder than he's ever kissed anyone in his life. Kiss him until they're both breathless but not break away even then, allowing his lungs to burn from the lack of air. 

He wants Geralt to press him up against the tree that he's leaning on, bite into his neck, leaving any marks he wants on it, wants his hands and lips everywhere on his body, and the longer Jaskier doesn't have that, the more his desire turns into an ache. 

You've got blood all over you, he has to remind himself, Now is not the time. 

He reaches for the buttons of his sleeves, undoes them, Geralt still watching him carefully, and gods, Jaskier loves that but if they started this whole game, he's not going to give up that easy. 

"Don't look," he smiles, eyes shining as he makes a gesture for Geralt to turn around. "Come on, Witcher."

Geralt scoffs and rolls his eyes at him but obeys, nevertheless, turning away.

We both know I'm going to spend the night in your bed, Jaskier thinks, pulling his shirt off over his head, But I'm not letting you win this fast.

Having undressed to just his smallclothes, he whistles for Cerbin and jumps back up into the saddle, unwilling to get into the river on his own because there are just too many weeds and water creatures on the bottom of it that he _does not_ want to touch, especially at night.

The water is cold and he hisses when it touches his ankles but if it wasn't for Cerbin, he would've been chest-deep in it, so he's just grateful for what he's got. 

Geralt's suggestion to go for a swim did, undoubtedly, sound very tempting and Jaskier can't help but think about how it would feel to get the witcher into the water with him. How it would feel to run his hands down his shoulders and chest, keeping him close, brush his hair away from his eyes and lean in to learn what his lips taste like. 

Jaskier bites his lip, darting a look towards the witcher who's still playing by the rules and not looking at him, and the bard doesn't know if he likes it that way or not. For a second, he considers calling for Geralt to join him in the river but then again, it's just too cold and Jaskier knows that if he jumps down from the saddle and into the water, it's gonna get unbearable in less than few minutes, the witcher beside him or not. 

Perhaps, he thinks, We'll still have our chance.

Not that he expects Geralt to offer for them to travel together - or for him to stay in this realm, at all, since it's not the one he needs - but maybe - just maybe - they'll have a few more days together.

Having spent eight years with Geralt - _this realm's_ Geralt - Jaskier is used to missing him. Used to the dull, quiet ache somewhere deep in his chest that grows stronger at night and to the waves of sudden weakness that wash over him when, travelling from one town to another, he hears the familiar name, every bit of his consciousness hoping that he's going to run into the witcher, that he hasn't left yet. 

Jaskier knew he was in love with the witcher for pretty much as long as they've known each other but he never said anything, never showed his feelings with more than a gentle hand through Geralt's hair when he'd come back from a hunt, exhausted, or a warm, tight embrace before they part again. Though the witcher had never been a fan of physical display of affection, he would still wrap his arms around Jaskier in return every single time and that only made the bard love him more. 

But Jaskier knew that his feelings are unrequited, knew that a few drunk kisses didn't mean the same thing to Geralt that they did for him and though it hurt almost insufferably at first, he'd learned to live with it, and soon enough, the pain had turned into an ache. 

Easy at his affections, Jaskier's fallen in and out of love countless times over those eight years but there's always been a place in his heart for Geralt. The feelings for him never burned out, they never even faded but Jaskier didn't allow himself to concentrate on them, though that never stopped him from writing all those bittersweet love songs that made women in his audience cry. 

It wasn't perfect - wasn't even close - but it was what it was, and he never asked for more as asking for more would mean ruining everything he's got. 

Loving Geralt was something that he was used to by now. Not having him love him back was something that had come to terms with. 

Jaskier sighs softly, stealing another look at the witcher who's now highly invested in brushing out Roach's mane and murmuring something into her ears, the mare having decided that she's had enough of swimming for tonight. 

Maybe, Jaskier thinks, Destiny has decided to give me a second chance.

"Cerbin-" he calls, leaning down in the saddle to wash the blood off his hands. "Do you think I'm just destined to keep running into Geralt, even if it's his _another fucking version_?"

Cerbin flicks his ears at him, shakes out his mane, splashing water everywhere, and that's enough of an answer for the bard. 

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he sighs, hissing again as he washes the stains from his chest, where the blood had soaked through his shirt and doublet. "That's what I thought."

***

Though the night is warm, by the time Jaskier gets both Cerbin and himself out of the water, he's absolutely freezing. 

Thanking every god he knows that he's got a clean shirt in the saddlebags, he dresses up with shaking hands and it's when he's doing up the last button of his shirt - even though he hates buttoning his shirts all the way up - that Geralt decides that he's now allowed to look and turns to him. 

"Come," he calls after having studied the bard for a few seconds and extending his hand to him. 

Even if Jaskier wanted, he would not have been able to resist him. But then again, that doesn't really matter because, by all means, he wants to obey every word. 

He comes closer, rubbing at his shoulders for warmth and taking the witcher's extended hand only to be pulled into his arms with no warning and gasp softly, immediately feeling no air in his lungs. His heart skips a beat as Geralt wraps his arms around him from behind, bites at the scruff of his neck, one on his hands slipping further down, to the bard's thigh. 

"Promised to keep you warm, haven't I?" he murmurs, breath hot against Jaskier's ear, sending a million little pinpricks down his spine and almost making him moan. 

Jaskier leans into the touch, unable to hold himself back when they're this close, reaches a hand up behind him to get it into the witcher's hair and pull him to his neck, knees going weak when Geralt presses a kiss to it. It's barely there, the touch only a second long but it's enough to send Jaskier's head reeling and he can't remember anyone ever being able to do that to him before. Anyone being able to make him break and shatter into pieces with only a little more than a snap of their fingers. 

"Hold still," Geralt says, nosing at the bard's neck but not touching his lips to it again which drives Jaskier _insane_. "Trust me."

One of his hands still on the bard's thigh, the pulls on the fabric of his shirt with the other one, untucking it from Jaskier's breeches and making his breath catch, runs his fingers over his abdomen feather-light, just to tease, and if Jaskier thinks that he already can't breathe by then, he suffocates completely when the witcher's touch gets fire-hot, almost burning him. 

Jaskier feels a shiver run through him, starting somewhere deep in his chest and going all the way to his fingertips in a wave of pleasant weakness. 

"How do you-" he chokes out but before he can finish the question, Geralt takes his hand away from his thigh and shows him the little sparks of Igni wrapped around his fingers, glowing in the dark of the night. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he murmurs, brushing his lips over Jaskier's neck, tearing a soft, choked moan out of his chest. "Took me some time to learn to control the Sign like that."

It's not like anything Jaskier's ever felt before, each touch like fire on his skin, the waves of pleasure bordering on pain which only makes it even more perfect. He wants to feel that on his chest, on his thighs, on his lips. 

"You're going to kill me..." Jaskier breathes out, throwing his head back to rest it on the witcher's shoulder and his entire body aches to kiss him but he can't reach his lips. 

"Mmm, I've got plans on you," with his other hand, Geralt undoes the buttons on the bard's shirt, slowly, one by one. "Would be terribly unwise to kill you now."

Jaskier can feel his head spin, can feel his heartbeat quicken until it's almost painful and he has to remember everything he's ever learned as a performer and as a hunter in order to keep control of his body - or, at least, the bits that are left. He presses himself closer to the witcher, absolutely shamelessly, wraps his hand around the witcher's to take it lower, gasping softly from the way Igni feels on the tips of his fingers.

Geralt's breathing is deep and even where his chest is pressed against the bard's back, and that only makes it worse, the contrast making Jaskier's vision blur. 

With his other hand, the witcher caresses Jaskier's thigh, getting a slightly tighter grip every now and then, tugs on the waist of his breeches to slip his fingers underneath, following the line of short dark hair that runs from Jaskier's lower abdomen to the base of his cock, barely touching. 

"You smell incredible when you're turned on," Geralt breathes into his ear, running his burning touch over Jaskier's lower abdomen, and the bard nearly passes out at that. 

"Kiss me," he breaks, tightening his grip in the witcher's hair to pull him closer. 

He wants it so much that he feels like his heart is not even beating, like if he doesn't feel Geralt's lips on his, he will just not survive this. 

Despite Jaskier's hand in his hair, the witcher doesn't allow him to pull him any closer, just brushes his lips over his neck in a nearly unperceivable touch. 

"I will," he says, moving his hand higher to follow the lines of the bard's ribs, where the skin is thin and sensitive, and making him gasp from both pain and pleasure. "When we get back to my bedroom."

Disenchantment crashes over Jaskier's entire body like a wave of cold water, and he has to clench his jaw until it hurts as to not let himself break the rules and just take what he wants, allowing Geralt to torment him, even so mercilessly. He's painfully aware of just how hard he is and is thankful to every god he knows that his breeches are not skin-tight and the style of them can hide it, though only just. 

Let's just fucking go then, he wants to say, Because if not, I'm not going to care about this little game of ours anymore and have you fuck me right here and now, even if I have to beg for it. 

"I take it, I did my job at keeping you warm?" the witcher enquires and Jaskier wants to _kill him_ when he realises that it's all been just another part of the game. 

Taking in a deep breath, head still spinning, he turns around in Geralt's arms, shuddering as he feels the sparks of Igni on the small of his back, and reaches up to get the witcher's hair out of his face gently, smiling at him. He reaches up, touching his lips to Geralt's cheek and leaving a soft kiss there.

"I might just make it to the inn before I get cold again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you do not even understand just how excited I am to write the next chapter, for I am literally like a cat, running to a bowl of food, shaking  
> gods help me


	3. tell me I'm yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear hearts, I do apologise horribly for taking such a long time writing this chapter. I've been in the process of moving to the UK for university and this last month had been just a little too much to have the time or the energy to write.  
> thank you for all the incredible support you've shown me on the previous chapters, it means the absolute world to me.  
> x

By the time they get back to the inn, Jaskier finds it in him to keep the game up for at least a little longer.

His entire body aches for touch, heart skipping beats whenever he thinks about all the other things that Geralt can do to him if the Fire Sign had only been the start, but even so, he gathers enough self-control to last him just a little while longer. 

"Think I'm gonna order myself a bath," he murmurs to Cerbin as he undoes the buckles of his bridle, knowing perfectly that the witcher can hear him. "Well deserved after getting drenched in ghoul's blood, don't you think? My hair is still sticky with it."

He can hear Geralt chuckle from Roach's stable but can't make out what it is that he says to the mare as a response. 

The thought of a nice, long bath with all kinds of salts and oils does sound incredibly appealing, though, especially after the cold river, and that makes it easier for Jaskier to be patient. He wants to wash the rest of the blood off, wants to shake off the lingering tiredness from his performance earlier in the evening, wants to make Geralt wait and listen for the steps in the corridor. 

He knows that this is going to be the death of him but self-restriction has never been the strongest of his suits.

Having kissed Cerbin gently on the muzzle, the stallion reaching out to bite him playfully, he leaves the stable, closing the door behind him, but before he can as much as step outside, Geralt catches his wrist and pins the bard to the nearest beam, taking all air away from his lungs. 

"My room is on the third floor, the last door to the right," the witcher breathes into his ear, making Jaskier's skin crawl. "Wear something that's easy to take off."

From the way Geralt's voice sounds - like an order more than anything else - Jaskier's knees go weak for a second and instinctively, without even thinking, he holds onto Geralt's shoulders, the strong muscles a comforting reliance under his fingers. 

Usually, Jaskier doesn't like following orders, preferring to make his own decisions - though sometimes questionable - whenever he can. But when Geralt talks to him in _that_ voice, he's ready to do anything the witcher tells him to. 

"Third floor, then," he smiles instead of saying anything else that is racing through his mind. 

It's a torture, really, being this close yet unable to reach up and kiss him.

Jaskier runs a gentle hand through the witcher's hair before pulling away and ducking under his arm to leave. His heart is pounding in his chest, entire body aching to turn around and come back to the witcher, follow him to his room immediately but it's too late to change the rules now, so Jaskier makes himself take in a breath and return to the inn. 

The innkeeper is wiping mugs and glasses, clearly half-asleep, paying no attention to the rather loud company at one of the corner tables, and when Jaskier comes up to him to order a bath, for a few seconds, the man just looks at him, blinking slowly, until finally realising what it is that he wants and calling for one of his daughters. 

The girl appears from the back room, leans on the bar, smiling at the bard charmingly, and just a few hours ago, Jaskier would've been flirting with her, darting looks at her beautiful breasts, but now, even though she's batting her eyelashes at him and reaching out to touch his hand, all Jaskier can think of is Geralt. His voice, his amber eyes, so tentative and captivating, his touch that feels like fire on his skin. 

"Do you have company for Beletteyn yet?" the barmaid asks in the sweetest of voices, leaning in even closer so that her chest is on full display. 

There are four days until Beletteyn, Jaskier thinks, _Do_ I have company?

Jaskier had always loved May Night. Ever since he'd first seen it in all its glory, he fell hopelessly in love with it. With the fires that burn so high that they seem to reach the sky, with the food and wine that everyone shares, with the easy affections that are so strong and all-consuming that for one night they feel like love. 

He remembers the first time he'd seen it, his first year in the Oxenfurt Academy. Remembers sneaking out and running away with a few other students, terrified of getting caught but so drunk on the feeling of finally being able to see the celebration that they've heard everyone talking about their entire life with their own eyes, that fear was not something that was going to stop them. 

It was the first time in his life that he'd gotten drunk, the first time he'd seen the stars brighter than they really are and the first time he'd woken up in someone's arms. In two pair of arms, actually, but that is a detail he'd always kept to himself. 

"Perhaps," he finally smiles, running his thumb over the barmaid's wrist and making her avert her eyes with a shy smile. 

Perhaps, Jaskier thinks, If Geralt stays. 

***

The bath is steaming-hot, smelling of eucalyptus and chamomile, and the second Jaskier sees it, he realises just how cold he is. 

Tossing his clothes to the side, he gets unto the tub, hissing softly from the temperature, but once the water washes over his shoulders, he can't hold back a quiet moan, throwing his head back over the rim of the tub. 

It's his second night in the inn and even though he'd been planning on ordering himself a bath yesterday, by the time he'd arrived, it was way too late at night and all he really wanted was to sleep. So right now it feels like heaven to finally sink into the hot water, letting it wash away not only the blood and the dirt but the exhaustion, as well. 

For a few seconds, his mind is completely blank, nothing but the comforting warmth washing over his entire body but then - once again - he thinks about Geralt and his heart skips two beats in a row from knowing that the witcher is waiting for him upstairs. 

"Fuck-" Jaskier breathes out, rolling his hips unconsciously and running a hand down his neck and chest. 

His mind jumps back to the barmaid and her question about Beletteyn. 

_Two years ago, when travelling through Temeria with Geralt, it had just so happened that after almost a week of sleeping under the stars, they've finally found an inn that had a vacant room. Just one and barely big enough for two of them, but back then it was everything they could ask for. Though Geralt didn't have any contracts in the area, they were both tired after the long road and the horses needed to rest, too, so it wasn't too hard to convince the witcher to stay for a couple more days._

_On their third evening there, May Night had caught up with them._

_Though Geralt kept rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest, eventually Jaskier had convinced him to join everyone else in the celebration and practically dragged him out of the inn. At first, the witcher was his usual self with only the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes but then, with Jaskier dragging him around, he'd gotten drunk enough to actually **smile** and enjoy the night. There were lots of women that seemed rather interested in him, calling for Geralt to join them on their blankets and plaids, all of them either partly or completely naked, but Jaskier wasn't planning on sharing with anyone, so for the entire night he'd kept the witcher to himself, even though he knew perfectly that nothing's ever going to happen between them. _

_It was just that if he couldn't have him, no-one could._

_As the night had slowly turned into early morning, with the sky painted blue-green, they've finally returned to their room, which is when Jaskier's been proved wrong. Something did happen between them._

_By that time Geralt had been so drunk that he could barely keep his balance, holding onto Jaskier for that purpose, and once the door of their room had closed behind them, he'd lost that ability completely, tripping over his own legs and collapsing down onto the floor with the bard in tow. Laughing like it's the funniest thing that had ever happened to him, he pulled Jaskier closer, examining his face carefully before suddenly leaning down and pressing their lips together._

_For Jaskier, who's been in love with the witcher since pretty much their first encounter, it felt like it wasn't even real. For a few seconds, he couldn't even bring himself to do something until finally, it clicked, and before he even knew it, he was already kissing back, both his hands in the witcher's hair. It left him breathless, head reeling and heart beating so fast that it hurt. Left him mindlessly reaching for the buckles of Geralt's armour, entire body aching for more, but before he could make his hands stop shaking, the witcher kissed him again and pulled away, his amber eyes hazy with alcohol and unfocused._

_"'s bad luck," he muttered. "Not to kiss anyone on Beletteyn."_

_Jaskier had just chuckled at him, and the witcher had been way too drunk to see how much that hurt._

_The next morning, he didn't even remember anything._

If we stay together for May Night, Jaskier thinks, running his hands through his hair to work in the soap, Maybe we won't even return to the inn, just find ourselves a little quiet spot right under the starts, they always shine brighter at Beletteyn.

***

By the time Jaskier gets out of the tub, warm and relaxed and smelling of eucalyptus and chamomile, there are still hours until dawn. The inn is not even nearly quiet, the first floor still filled with people who don't have anywhere to be tomorrow and therefore pass the time by drinking anything the innkeeper's got to offer, playing all sorts of indecent games and telling each other stories about everything and anything they can think off, most of them sex-related and/or completely made-up. 

On the upper floors, it also doesn't seem like at least someone is sleeping, as there is singing, laughing and moaning coming from behind every door, sometimes mixed.

People get excited when Beletteyn is only a few nights away. No-one's got time to sleep. 

Jaskier dries his hair off as much as he can, throws on a silvery shirt with voluminous bishop sleeves and crimson-red breeches, having decided that if all of this is really happening to him and he had managed to run into another version of Geralt even though the witcher could've appeared somewhere on the other side of the Continent with just as much probability, then he might as well show up in full glamour. 

When he knocks and the door opens, Geralt is not in his armour anymore, only wearing trousers and a half-unbuttoned white shirt instead. It's such a contrast to the black that Jaskier's used to, that for a second, it feels strange.

Geralt takes him up and down with that goddamn grin of his, takes a step back to let the bard into the room, never taking his eyes off him. 

"You look beautiful," the witcher murmurs, and Jaskier _blushes_. 

The room is slightly bigger than Jaskier's, filled with the soft, warm light of the flames in the fireplace that cast long shadows onto the walls. The bed is made but clearly already slept in, which tells the bard that it's not Geralt's first night here. 

"Heve you been here long?" he hears himself say, turning around to look at the witcher. 

Geralt comes closer, slowly, like a predator on a hunt, his amber eyes glowing softly, catching the light of the fire. 

"Only a few days," he says. "It's my third night here."

They're so close now that Jaskier unconsciously takes a step back, falling down onto the bed, the _power_ radiating off of the witcher suddenly making him feel overwhelmed. 

Geralt offers him a hand to pull the bard back up, and once he does, they're chest to chest, so close that Jaskier can feel the witcher's warmth. Taking in a breath, steadying himself, Jaskier reaches up to cup the sharp of Geralt's jaw with his palm, brushing his thumb over the rough stubble. For a few seconds, he just studies the witcher's amber eyes before leaning in and touching his lips to the corner of his mouth. It's feather-light, barely there, but immediately, the bard pulls back as if to make sure that Geralt is still there with him, that's it's not some kind of an intricate illusion that could've been broken by a touch of his lips. 

But Geralt is still there, watching the bard with a soft glint of amusement in his eyes, arms wrapped around Jaskier's waist. 

"Careful," he grins. "I bite."

And with that, Jaskier is gone. 

He leans into the touch as Geralt tips his chin up, a soft little moan escaping his chest as he feels the witcher's lips on his own and his eyes flutter shut. The kiss is soft, gentle - tender, even - and Jaskier feels like he's melting, like he's crumbling into pieces and there is no way for him to ever get himself back together again.

Without even thinking, he wraps one his hands around Geralt's neck, pulling him closer still, the other one tangled in the witcher's soft hair, and presses his entire body closer, almost shuddering when Geralt runs his tongue over his lips, deepening the kiss slowly and licking into his mouth. Jaskier barely holds back another moan as he breaks away to take in a breath, and the witcher's hand on his thigh is not in any way helpful. 

"See," Geralt murmurs, nosing at his neck and catching the gentle skin between his teeth, making Jaskier's breath hitch. "It wasn't so hard to wait, was it?"

As a little revenge, Jaskier pulls on his hair hard enough to make the witcher hiss. "Oh, shut up."

Geralt pulls back just a little, throwing his head back instinctively and Jaskier instantly uses that to his advantage, brushing his lips over the witcher's jaw and cheek before pulling him into another kiss, sweet and deep. He bites, cathing the witcher's lower lip between his teeth playfully, and that earns him a soft little growl that sends tingles down his back.

Without looking, the bard reaches for the buttons on Geralt's shirt, undoing them one by one, fingers shaking ever so slightly with anticipation until he can finally slide the unwanted fabric down the older man's shoulders, his hands immediately finding their way to his chest. Involuntarily, he gasps softly into the witcher's lips, breaking the kiss to take a look at the uneven, jagged scar under his palm that he knows is not supposed to be there. 

"Oh-" he breathes out, running his gaze over Geralt's chest and abdomen, marked with claws and teeth and swords. "You've got so much more scars than he does."

Geralt follows Jaskier's hand as the bard runs it over the three claw marks on the left side of his chest, faded but everlasting. 

"Does that scare you?" he asks.

Jaskier lifts his gaze, locking it with Geralt's for a second before leaning in and brushing his lips over the scars, just like he'd imagined he'd do if he had the chance. Over the years, he'd seen the other version of the witcher shirtless - or completely naked - enough times to learn all of his scars by heart, never missing a chance to run his fingers over them on the rare occasions that he'd get. 

"Not at all," Jaskier smiles, gasping softly as the witcher pulls him closer again. "Will you tell me about them?"

Once again, Geralt tips his chin up but instead of kissing his lips, he slips lower, to the bard's neck, making him shudder and lean into the touch, chasing it. Though Jaskier's always been sensitive, his neck was his biggest weakness. Even the gentlest of touches could send his head reeling, and the way _Geralt_ kisses him, shamelessly and insistently, like he already owns him, makes the bard's knees give out. 

"What, right now?"

All Jaskier really wants is to pull Geralt down onto the bed and take it from there but he knows that they'll get to that, that they've got time, and so instead, he chooses to take his time studying the witcher's body. He bites his lip as Geralt nips at his neck again, just a little harder this time, and can't help but wonder if he'll be allowed to leave marks and love-bites behind. He'd always had a weakness for those, both on himself and on his lovers. 

"Right now," he smiles again, feeling Geralt scoff against his neck. 

There are still hours before dawn and if this will be the only night they'll spend together, Jaskier wants to make the best out of it, wants to remember all the details so that whenever he thinks back on it, the flashes of memories in his head will be bright enough not to fade over time. Ever since the Academy, he'd slept with much more people than he can recall but there aren't a lot of nights that he keeps in his mind, tucked away safely somewhere in the far corner of his memory. Sometimes, when he's composing a new song and needs to describe an emotion well enough for it to make his audience feel it, he goes back to those nights. 

"Right now," he repeats with an even gentler smile, pulling back ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of Geralt's amber eyes.

"Alright," the witcher says, undoing the ties on Jaskier's shirt before he even knows it. "Anything you want."

Though the room is only illuminated by the flames in the fireplace, it's enough for Jaskier to see all the scars, standing out dark-red or - the older ones - milky-white against the witcher's otherwise pale skin. The claw marks on his chest and abdomen, uneven scars all over his arms, a bite mark on his shoulder, dangerously close to the neck. 

"I know this one," Jaskier says, pressing a gentle kiss to it and running his hands down Geralt's back only to gasp again as he feels scars there, too. 

Before he can do anything with himself, he digs his nails into them, making Geralt arch his back in the sweetest of ways. 

"So your Geralt has it, as well?" the witcher enquires, tilting his head to the side to give Jaskier better access to his neck which the bard immediately uses to his own advantage, brushing his lips over the scar again before switching them for his tongue.

"Right now _you're_ my Geralt," he retorts, unable to take it anymore. "But yes, he does. The striga, isn't it?"

Geralt hums in agreement, pulls on the edges of the bard's shirt, takes it off him up over his head, tossing the silky fabric to the bed before pulling Jaskier close again, so that they're chest to chest. Though Geralt - just like any other witcher - is not as warm as a human, somehow Jaskier still nearly burns himself at the touch. 

It takes him a lot of self-control to keep his breathing as deep as he can but it's hardly possible when they're this close, skin on skin, and for a second, Jaskier feels as if this is the first time he's in someone else's bedroom, with those strong arms around him, and that thought alone takes all the air away from his lungs. He moans softly, breathlessly, running both his hands up Geralt's chest and hiding his face in the crook of his neck, nuzzling closer before touching his lips to it, running hard, possessive kisses all the way down to the witcher's collarbone. 

One of his hands catches on the medallion, and it's just now that Jaskier notices that it's different, as well. 

He pulls back, even though it takes him a little too much effort, and twists the medallion in his hand, feeling it tremble ever so slightly, which makes the bard dart a look at Geralt, but the witcher just tilts his head slightly to the side without pulling Jaskier's hand away. 

"It's been doing that every time you're close," he says and oh, Jaskier's got a few questions about that but none of them matter right now, when he's allowed to touch, kiss, feel instead, mapping out the other man's body in his mind. 

"This one," the bard breathes out, running the tips of his fingers over a deep scar in the shape of an uneven star on the right side of Geralt's chest.

The witcher chuckles, shakes his head, his hands gentle but sure as he runs them down Jaskier's sides, all the way to his hips, every touch close and intimate but not lustful. In fact, it's calming, giving Jaskier the time he needs to breathe, to calm his trembling fingers. 

"It's an old one, I got it when hunting a basilisk," Geralt says, leaning down to catch Jaskier's lips in a kiss. "It was already down, barely alive, but as one last little revenge spat its venom at me, which immediately ate right through my armour and skin, it's pure luck that I'd found the neutralising potion in time."

Jaskier is listening, he really is. 

But his every sense, every thought is filled with the feeling of Geralt's kiss still burning on his lips, with the feeling of his skin, covered in scars yet somehow still soft to the touch, the feeling of the witcher's hands on his hips holding in the most comforting of ways but still making Jaskier feel like he's burning, like he's caught up in flames and there's no point in even trying to make it out alive. More importantly, he doesn't want to. He wants anything, but that. 

"Kiss me," he hears himself breath out, and his voice is hoarse with desire. 

Once again, Geralt shows off his sharp canine, head tilted slightly to the side as he runs one of his hands through Jaskier's hair and scratches at the nape of his neck, making the bard shudder. 

"Just kiss?" he teases but before Jaskier can say anything in response, already presses their lips together, slow and deep and sweet. 

Geralt's lips taste like white cardamom and strong, expensive alcohol that Jaskier's never tried. Every kiss sends his head reeling more and more, until he's completely drunk on that taste, breathless and obedient. 

He wants to sink to his knees, undo the buckle on the witcher's belt, run his lips down his lower abdomen and over the length of his cock before taking it into his mouth, all the way to his throat. Wants Geralt's hands in his hair, pulling and guiding, _controlling_ him. 

Jaskier moans into the kiss, his chest suddenly suffocatingly tight with a sharp, painfully-sweet spasm of pure lust. 

He reaches his shaking hands down, latching on the waist of Geralt's trousers and trying to undo his belt but the witcher catches both his wrist without looking and guides his hands back to his chest, nearly making the bard whine. 

"Patience, bard," Geralt murmurs, breaking the kiss and finding his way to Jaskier's neck, peppering wet kisses all over it until finally, he bites a mark into it, making Jaskier gasp so loud that it's probably audible in the room next door.

Feeling like a toy in the witcher's strong, sure hands, Jaskier gives in completely, just taking whatever he's given, following the lead rather than trying to take what he wants, and though that's very far what he usually acts like in bed, right now it's everything he wants, everything he needs.

Wrapping both his arms around Geralt's neck to keep him close, he rolls his hips against his, eyes rolling with pleasure that runs through his entire body in a weakening wave when his hard cock brushes over the witcher's thigh. Geralt leans into it just so, not nearly enough, but Jaskier can feel his breath hitch, a warm _huff_ of air somewhere against his neck.

"You've got a few scars of your own," the witcher murmurs, breaking away and running his fingertips down a thin scar going down from Jaskier's left shoulder, over the collarbone and all the way down to his chest in a nearly perfect vertical line. 

Though usually, Jaskier doesn't like people touching the marks on his skin, right now he can't help but lean into it, Geralt's fingers sparking electricity up his spine.

In a way, he's still not completely used to his own scars that hunts and brawls sometimes leave on him. Before the Path, his skin used to be absolutely flawless, silk-like, for when he was a kid, he'd preferred reading and practising his music rather than joining the other kids outside where they would all inevitably hurt themselves somehow and gain little reminders. 

Even staying mostly indoors - or, when outdoors, nice and safe - he'd always had enough company to keep him entertained, playing with his cousins and his family's servant's kids, developing one crush after another and declaring his marriage to someone new what seemed like every other day. In a lot of ways, he remained the same all throughout the Academy, except that over his years there, he'd managed to get to know _everyone,_ starting with the other students and ending with the gatekeeps. And when that wasn't enough, he'd also gotten to know half of Oxenfurt overall.

Falling in and out of love effortlessly, he'd spent three years in the Academy, graduated spectacularly and set out onto the Path, still giving his entire heart to everyone and anyone that had as much as smiled at him and then getting it back a minute later to give to something new. 

That is, until he met Geralt. 

After that, not only did he realise that a part of his heart will always belong to him, no matter how hard and how often the bard falls in love with someone else but also, his skin stopped being flawlessly smooth. 

It's hard not to get scars when you're travelling the Path, and even harder when you're travelling it with a witcher.

"It's a rather old one," Jaskier finally breathes out, throwing his head back as Geralt switches his fingers for his lips. "I got in a rather unpleasant fight and wasn't fast enough. Got stabbed pretty bad, could see my own collarbone through the cut."

Jaskier knows that Geralt is listening and he would tell him more if only it wasn't for the witcher's lips on his skin that send shivers through his entire body, making it absolutely impossible to make words into proper sentences. 

He's painfully hard by now, breathing laboured and shallow, exhales breaking off into soft little moans every time Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt's, trembling in his arms and desperately holding himself back from begging. 

"Turn around for me," the bard makes himself say after what seems like an eternity of biting his lips and trying to regain control over his breathing, because if he doesn't break the contact between them for at least a second, he might just lose his mind. "I want to see the scars on your back."

Geralt chuckles against Jaskier collarbone, bites him one last time like it's a little revenge, but pulls away, nonetheless, taking a few steps back and turning the other way, his back and broad shoulders now on full display, and despite himself, Jaskier still gasps softly at the sight of the claw marks that go all the way from the witcher's right shoulder and to the left side of his ribs. 

"Does it make me a horrible person if I think they suit you?" he asks, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips, as he feels like he can breathe again and comes closer to press himself against the witcher's back, looping his arms under Geralt's and leaving a kiss on his shoulder, catching the older man's gaze through the mirror. 

He runs his lips up the witcher's shoulder and neck, covering his skin with warm affectionate kisses.

"Mmm-" Geralt murmurs, turning around in Jaskier's arms and tipping his chin up in a gesture that he seems to enjoy way too much. "The absolute worst."

Before Jaskier can say anything else, the witcher kisses him, hard, and grabs his hips shamelessly to pull him up, making the bard instinctively wrap his legs around his waist, making a choked little sound somewhere in the back of his throat. Though Jaskier's never been too compliant in bed, preferring to show his temper and taking control of his pleasure into his own hands, once he feels Geralt's tongue on his lips, he can't even think about refusing, parting his lips obediently and letting the witcher lick into his mouth, slow and sweet. 

Before he even knows it, he's already being seated on top of the dresser, pressed right against the mirror, and he immediately pulls Geralt in even closer with his legs, biting at the man's lip as their hips press together, sending a wave of pleasure through the bard's entire body.

"Impatient, are we?" Geralt grins, breaking the kiss and cupping the bulge in Jaskier's breeches, making him buck his hips involuntary and nearly whine. "Do you really want me this much?"

Usually, it's Jaskier that plays with his lovers like this, making them tremble with anticipation and watching their eyes grow darker and darker with pure lust. And yet, he feels absolutely helpless in the witcher's arms. 

"Just kiss me," he pleads, voice breaking into a soft little moan as Geralt's grip gets just a little tighter. "Please."

He never has to ask for anything. Never has to beg to get what he wants, all of his lovers ready to oblige his every wish before it's even spoken, but with those tentative amber eyes on him, Jaskier is ready to do and say anything that might be needed for just one simple kiss. 

"Would you only look at that," the witcher murmurs, passing his fingers through the younger man's hair. "So full of teasing and confidence and yet, you're begging me."

With every word he says, Jaskier feels like his heart is about to stop, and it's a torture, an unbearable fucking torture to be this close and yet unable to just lean in. 

" _Please_ , Geralt-"

Finally, that seems enough, and the witcher bites into his lips, the kiss raw and hungry, nearly painful, making Jaskier shudder all over. Somewhere in the back of his throat, he moans, letting the witcher lick into his mouth, and he wouldn't be able to decide if he likes this or the calming, gentle kisses better, even if his life depended on it. 

Without looking, Geralt undoes the ties on the bard's breeches, his hands quick and oh so talented, and slips his fingers underneath, following the trail of short dark hair running down Jaskier's lower abdomen until he finally wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, making the bard suffocate for a few endless, agonising seconds. Jaskier arches his back, his entire body leaning into the touch, and he's so fucking hard that for a moment, he thinks that he might come from just this. 

"What do you think I should do with you, hm?" Geralt murmurs into his ear, burning the sensitive skin with his breath. "Should I let you come right now, from just my hands, and then play with you the entire night for my own pleasure?"

He tightens his grip, runs his thumb over the tip of Jaskier's cock, sending sparks of pure pleasure up the bard's spine, making him bite his lip hard enough for the tender skin to split beneath his teeth. Geralt's voice gets right under his skin, runs over exposed nerves like a blade, and the way he chooses his words makes the bard feel like he wouldn't be able to refuse him anything even if he wanted to. 

"Or should I make you wait, edge you until you're desperate, aching, _ruined_?" Geralt noses at his neck, sucks a new blood-red mark into it, moving his wrist so slowly that Jaskier feels like he's going to cry if this lasts any longer. "Should I control your pleasure completely so that you come only when I allow you to?"

"Geralt-" Jaskier chokes out, barely recognising his own voice, and he wants to say something else, wants to ask, to beg, to do anything to get what he wants so badly but he can't bring himself to say another word, only the witcher's name. 

Over the years, Jaskier's come to think that he knows pretty much everything there is to know about his desires and preferences, and though his fantasies had always had a rather wide variety to them, they've all been familiar. 

The things that Geralt makes him want, makes him _ache for_ are things that Jaskier's never wanted before. 

"Would that be too cruel of me?" the witcher asks and it would almost sound innocent if he wasn't running his tongue over another fresh love-bite, right under Jaskier's chin. "To torture you like that?"

He runs his thumb over the tip of the bard's throbbing cock again, smearing precome over it, and Jaskier rolls his eyes with pleasure, unable to hold back a loud, broken moan to matter how hard he tries. He knows that if he doesn't keep his voice down, someone's going to hear them but he'd rather get heard than stop any of this. 

"How much is too much for you, bard?" Geralt enquires, mapping the bard's neck out with his lips, kisses soft and comforting once again, the contrast making Jaskier's head spin so bad that he has to close his eyes. "How many orgasms can you take in a row?"

With shaking hands, Jaskier reaches to run his fingers down the witcher's cheek and jaw, rough stubble scratching his fingertips pleasantly, brush his thumb over Geralt's lips, heart leaping in his chest as the witcher parts them. Immediately, Jaskier slides his fingers into his mouth, hot and wet and perfect, and pulls Geralt closer, kissing him with all he's got without taking his hand away. 

He rolls his hips, gasping softly right into the witcher's lips, wraps his legs tighter around his waist, trying to pull the man even closer, though they're already almost chest to chest. 

Geralt caves in, kissing back slowly, licking at Jaskier's fingers still in his mouth and stroking his flush cock in long, steady motions, both taking the edge off and pushing Jaskier closer to it. The bard leans into the touch with his entire body, rolls his hips again, moving together with the witcher, gets both his hands into his hair, pulling him closer to his lips and deepening the kiss, moaning softly every time Geralt brushes over the tip of his cock, so sensitive that it almost hurts. 

Jaskier knows that Geralt isn't going to let him come this fast but the witcher still allows for his pleasure to build slowly, hot and sweet somewhere in his lower abdomen, before taking his hand away. He runs his tongue over the bard's lips and breaks the kiss, tilting his head slightly to the side to catch the emotions in Jaskier's eyes as he brushes his thumb over his parted lips, smearing precome over the lower one. Jaskier immediately licks it off, never breaking the eye contact and feeling his own taste on his tongue. 

No-one's ever done that to him before but there's a wave of heat that runs through the bard's body from the way that Geralt looks at him, the way he leans down to give him a long praising kiss.

Somehow, that helps Jaskier regain enough control over himself to be able to talk again. 

"If you want to know how much I can take, why don't you find that out for yourself, Witcher?" he smiles, and Geralt's amber eyes immediately light up with a fire that Jaskier knows he'll fall hopelessly in love with if given the chance. 

Before he really knows it, Geralt tugs the rest of his clothes off, throwing them somewhere towards the bed and leaving bard completely naked in front of him. Taking a step back, the witcher runs his gaze over his entire body slowly, almost making Jaskier blush, and catches his ankle when the younger man reaches out to brush his foot over his side, beckoning him closer. 

"You're gorgeous," he says, voice low and thick with arousal, that very same grin tugging on the corner of his lips as he lifts the bard's leg higher to press a soft kiss to his ankle, and this time around there's nothing that Jaskier can do with the colour spilling over his cheeks. 

"Come here," he asks softly, extending an arm towards the witcher and controlling his breathing as much as he can, knowing that the longer he's kept on edge, the sharper the pleasure will feel in the end. "You'll have the time to torment me, just come here."

Geralt chuckles but obeys, Jaskier pulling him into a kiss as soon as he's close enough, his hands running down the witcher's shoulders, chest and abdomen, all the way to the waist of his trousers, fingers catching on the belt that Jaskier undoes impatiently, eager to finally feel Geralt closer. 

This time around Geralt doesn't stop him, one of his hands in Jaskier's tangled hair and the other one somewhere on his thigh, keeping the bard close. He growls softly into the bard's lips as the younger man bites him, heavy, sweet tang of blood spilling over their tongues, and he just can't leave it like that, has to have his revenge, breaking the kiss and biting into Jaskier's neck, almost hard enough to break the tender skin. 

"You're playing a dangerous game, bard," he murmurs, licking at the mark left. "I told you I bite."

What Geralt doesn't know yet is that there aren't a lot of things that Jaskier loves more than those flashes of pain that a lover's teeth can cause. Sometimes, on especially hot nights, he'd let his lovers bite him hard enough to make him bleed, leaving marks for weeks afterwards.

He has the audacity to grin, pulling the witcher closer to his neck and slipping a hand under his trousers, both of them gasping softly as Jaskier wraps his fingers tightly around the base of the other man's cock, the pleasure razor-sharp, almost painful. 

The witcher seems to take that as an invitation, biting at Jaskier's neck mercilessly, tearing choked, broken moans from his throat, and though the bard knows that he'll be covered in bruises come morning, it only turns him on more, making him tremble all over. 

"Harder-" he pleads, pulling at the waist of the witcher's trousers with one hand to get them down as much as he can and run his gaze over his entire body, fixing it on his own hand, stroking the older man's cock slowly, precome glistening on his fingers. 

He doesn't want to show it, he really doesn't, but his eyes still go just a little wide from the size.

Fuck, he thinks, biting his lips in hopeless attempts to keep his voice down, There is no way I'll ever be able to fit all of that in my mouth.

He's dying to know what Geralt tastes like but before he can lift his hand to his lips to lick the precome off of his fingers, the witcher bites him, hard, dangerously sharp teeth sinking deep into the delicate skin of Jaskier's neck, and clasps a hand over his mouth to muffle a loud, desperate moan that breaks off into a sob once he touches his tongue to the bite. 

Jaskier digs his nails into the witcher's broad shoulders, clinging onto him so hard that he draws blood, arches his back, and the fucking contrast between those bites and soft, calming kisses nearly brings him to tears from just _how much_ it is.

"Is that what you want?" Geralt whispers into his ear, hands travelling down the bard's hips and thighs, little sparks of Igni making Jaskier's vision blur as he throws his head back, leaning into the touch with his entire body. "That the way you like it?"

The bite mark is pulsing painfully on the bard's neck and he can feel thin trails of blood run down to his collarbone. 

"I want you to fucking undress already," Jaskier hisses, impatient and desperate, bucking his hips up involuntary when Geralt's hands get to his inner thighs, the sparks a sharp, painful pleasure on the tender skin. 

"So impatient," the witcher grins but obeys, nonetheless, stripping off his remaining clothes and tossing them somewhere towards the armchair by the fireplace. 

He's got scars on his hips and thighs and legs and _gods_ , Jaskier wants to run his lips over each and every one of them, but that will come later, when they're already in bed, sated and content. Then he'll have the time to indulge in such a pleasure but right now his hands are shaking with anticipation, and all he fucking wants is to finally feel the witcher inside him. 

He's breathing heavily, shallowly, head spinning from hyperventilation, and he can barely feel his fingertips as he buries both his hands into Geralt's hair, pulling him into a desperate, raw kiss and gasping into his lips in surprise when the witcher grabs one of his ankles to throw it onto his shoulder. Not caring about his dignity, Jaskier whines as Geralt pushes his knees further apart and runs his fingers over the crease of his thighs, teasing at the rim but not pushing in. 

"Do you want to kill me?" Jaskier snaps, getting a fistful of the witcher's hair to yank it painfully, making the older man pay attention to him. "Is that what you want?"

Geralt laughs softly, eyes shining and dark with lust, and touches his lips to the sharp of the bard's jaw, so gentle that it's almost apologetic. 

"There are far easier ways to kill you, bard," he murmurs, touching his fingertips to Jaskier's lips and teasing the skin with just a few sparks of Igni. "But you're not getting out of this that easy."

Without warning, he grabs Jaskier's hair, making him throw his head back, sucks a painful, blood-red mark into his neck, right under the sharp of the bard's jaw and leans down to his ear, his voice a low growl when he says:

" _You're mine._ "

Jaskier's mind goes dark at that, and all he can do is whimper, a wave of painfully-sweet, weakening heat crashing over his entire body, taking air away from his lungs. He sniffles as Geralt picks him up, wraps his legs around the witcher's waist, kissing him so desperately that it's like he'll suffocate if he stops. 

The bed is wide and soft, the fur of the blanket pleasant on Jaskier's bare skin, and it feels heavenly to be laid down onto the furs and pillows after the cold wood of the dresser. Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt's, leaving scratches down his back and moaning breathlessly when the witcher runs a trail of hot wet kisses down his neck and shoulders, leaving marks and love-bites everywhere he can reach. 

"Geralt, I beg you-" he breathes, feeling like he's so close to the edge that he might come from just one touch. "Please, I just- I can't take it anymore."

His thighs are shaking as Geralt unlocks his ankles behind his back, making the bard lower his hips down onto the bed, and then, before Jaskier can say anything else, wraps his fingers tightly around his flush, throbbing cock, making him gasp loudly, arching his back and immediately leaning into the touch, leaking with precome. 

Geralt tortures him, moving slowly despite the tight grip, making Jaskier choke on his moans and whimpers, trembling, scratching the witcher's back raw. He licks off the blood on the bard's neck, touches his lips to the bite, leaning in closer when Jaskier throws one of his legs onto the small of his back again, whimpering and lifting his hips off the bed. 

"Faster-" Jaskier sobs, biting at the back of his hand to muffle the sounds that Geralt is tearing out of his chest. "Geralt, please-"

This time around the witcher doesn't have to be asked twice, and Jaskier's blood is thundering so loud in his ears that he can barely hear all the dirty little things that the witcher is whispering to him, leaving bites and kisses on what seems like his entire body all at once, moving his wrist faster.

"-the things I wanted to do to you back at the river," Geralt whispers, his breathing hot against Jaskier's ear. "Get you down onto your knees, see just how talented that mouth of yours is."

Jaskier can feel tears in the corner of his eyes from just how sharp, how agonisingly-good his pleasure is, and he's unable to as much as wipe them away, holding onto the witcher and bucking his hips up without even realising, the entire room narrowed down to just the sound of Geralt's low voice, the feeling of his rough fingers and his hot lips. 

"I saw the way you looked at me," Geralt licks a long strip up Jaskier's neck, presses a kiss to the sharp of his jaw and behind his ear, his every touch both comforting and absolutely agonising. "Saw the way you were biting those lips."

He leaves a trail of hot wet kisses from Jaskier's throat and all the way to this chest, catching his hard nipple between his teeth and making the bard's moan break off into a loud whine.

"I'll give you what you want," Geralt murmurs, his voice low and husky. "Once I see just how much you can take, I'll have you down on your knees."

Jaskier feels like by the time the witcher lets him go, he'll barely be conscious, and the thought of that echoes in his entire body as a painfully-sweet spasm of pure lust.

"I'm so close-" he whimpers, chest tight with anticipation, with the building orgasm. "Fuck, please-"

In his entire life, no-one has ever tortured him like that, no-one has ever treated him so rough and so gentle at the same time, and now all it takes is just one thought about how this is not nearly the end for Jaskier to arch his back and come, shaking, Geralt's name a choked moan on his lips. 

"Just like that," the witcher murmurs somewhere against his neck but Jaskier can't even kiss him back when he feels the man's lips on his own, he just trembles, the world dark in front of his eyes. "Just breathe for me."

Breathing is harder than it seems, Jaskier's lungs burning with the lack of air, but where his fingers are still clinging onto the witcher's shoulder, he can feel his chest rise and fall steadily, adjusting to that as much as he can and trying to piece his mind back together. 

Geralt noses at his neck, pressing soft little kisses to it, giving the bard the time he needs, runs his lips down his chest, paying very high attention to Jaskier's collarbones, and the bard wants to ask what is it about them that Geralt likes so much but he just can't bring himself to, for everything he can do is run his shaking fingers through the witcher's hair up and down. 

"Look at me," Geralt says, his voice calm but still not something that you could disobey. "I want to see just how much darker your eyes can get."

Making an immeasurable effort over himself, the bard complies, his body weak and pliable as the witcher pushes his knees further apart and gets one of Jaskier's ankles back onto his shoulder, making him moan softly but lean in, nonetheless.

Jaskier is unaware of the colour of his own eyes, but when he looks into Geralt's, they're dark, full of lust, and the way they glow in the low light of the fireplace makes the bard's breath hitch again. 

"So flexible," the witcher murmurs, touching his lips to Jaskier's ankle and running soft kisses up his leg, as far as he can reach. 

Geralt reaches for the oil on the nightstand beside the bed, and if Jaskier had the energy, he would've chuckled at the preparedness but right now all he can do is watch the witcher rub the oil between his fingers and bite his lips. Holding the eye contact, not letting Jaskier go, Geralt leaves one last kiss on his shin and pushes two fingers into the bard's malleable body, hot and tight and perfect, barely meeting any resistance. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes with pleasure, arching his back and moaning softly, breathlessly, his body still weak and trembling but _gods_ , it feels incredible to be treated like that, to be played with, _to be used for someone else's pleasure_. 

It barely hurts, the movements of Geralt's wrist slow and deep, his fingers brushing over just the right spot deep inside every time he slides them all the way into his lover's body and making sparks of pure pleasure run up Jaskier spine. He's still oh so sensitive from the last orgasm, completely exhausted with pleasure, but Geralt knows his way around and despite all that, Jaskier can feel himself getting hard again, the low thrum of arousal growing sharper and sharper with every second. 

"Come here," the witcher beckons, letting him go and shifting to rest his back against the headboard of the bed and get Jaskier into his lap. "Do you want just two fingers or should I add a third one?"

For a second, Jaskier's heart skips a beat at the thought of not being stretched enough, the thought of fire-hot pain mixing into the pleasure, but he knows that it will just be too much for one night, that he won't be able to take it. 

Talking is still far beyond his range of abilities right now, so he just noses at the witcher's neck, hides his face in it, knees shaking slightly where they're digging into the soft furs of the blankets. 

Geralt understands him without words, peppering kisses all over Jaskier neck and slowly slipping two of his fingers back into the bard's body before adding the third one, caressing his thigh with the other hand softly and sparking Igni out of his fingertips, making Jaskier shudder and lean into it, growing impatient again.

The stretch feels incredible, makes Jaskier lose control over his breathing again, and all he can do is keep hiding his face in the crook of the witcher's neck, kissing and biting everywhere he can reach, breathing low trembling moans right into his ear. Despite his thighs shaking with strain, he still moves together with the witcher, fucking himself onto his fingers and clenching his fingers on Geralt's shoulders every time he brushes over just the right spot inside. 

Jaskier knows that he could easily come from the witcher's fingers alone and some part of him wants to see if he'd be able to take three orgasms in a row but every time he rolls his hips, he can feel Geralt's hard cock brush over his inner thigh, leaving uneven smears of precome on the tender skin, and there's nothing that he wants more than to finally feel him inside. 

He presses himself closer to the witcher, sucks a mark into his neck slowly, tearing a low moan from his chest, and catches the gentle skin between his teeth, choosing not to talk even though he's recovered enough to do that by now. And he doesn't have to, for the witcher understands him without words. 

"Tell me if it hurts," Geralt whispers, catching the bard's lips in a deep, sweet kiss and slowly pushing in, holding his hips with both hands, steadying and guiding.

It does hurt, hot and dull pain spilling over the small of Jaskier's back, but it's not nearly enough to stop him, so he sinks further down, a shiver running through both of them, taking in the entire length of the witcher's cock and moaning loudly into his lips at the feeling of it pulsing inside him, hot and wet with precome. Jaskier whines softly, trying to overcome the pain so that Geralt can start moving, and the witcher helps him, comforts him, peppering soft little kisses all over his face and neck even though the bard can feel just how close to the edge he is. 

"You feel incredible," Geralt breathes out into Jaskier's lips, his amber eyes dark and absolutely devouring. "I don't know how I'll ever get enough of you."

Jaskier just moans into another kiss, allowing the witcher to lick into his mouth and biting his lips in return, re-opening the little wound left by his teeth earlier and savouring the sweet tang of blood on his tongue. He adjusts quickly, resting both his hands on the witcher's shoulders to prop himself up and roll his hips slowly, feeling so full, so filled-up that he's scared he will just lose his mind. 

"Please-" he breathes, because there's just not enough power in him to say anything else. "Please, Geralt-"

Keeping his hands on the bard's thighs, Geralt helps him, guides him, controlling his entire body so easily that Jaskier just wants to spend his entire fucking life like this, feeling claimed and owned. The witcher rolls his hips, soft at first, just to see how Jaskier will react, but when the bard moans, biting his lips, he thrusts into him harder, finding the right pace almost immediately, until they move as one. 

Jaskier throws his head back, digging his nails into Geralt's shoulders to give himself some kind of reliance, and moves faster, lifting himself almost all the way up every time and then sinking back, the wet, dirty sound of flesh on flesh filling his consciousness from edge to edge, leaving him panting and desperate, high on his own pleasure and the sound of Geralt's low, restrained moans. 

"Louder," he whispers, cupping the witcher's jaw with one hand and leaning down to try and kiss him but he can't bring himself to stop so it's just a smudged brush of his lips over Geralt's. "Please, louder. I want to hear you."

Geralt reaches up just in time to catch Jaskier's lower lip between his teeth, biting him hard and mercilessly, drawing blood and licking it off with unconcealed pleasure, letting his moans grow louder, higher, until they mix with Jaskier's and the bard can barely tell where lies the line between them. The witcher's voice sounds incredible like this, spilling through Jaskier's veins like fire, and fuck if the bard knew how he's ever going to get enough of this.

Taking one hand away from Jaskier's hip to pull him onto a proper kiss, Geralt shifts them both ever so slightly, but it's enough for Jaskier to gasp, his eyes flying open, and leave bleeding scratches on both of Geralt's shoulders, hot and slick with sweat.

"Right there," he chokes out, leaning in to let the witcher bite into his lips. "I- _fuck, please,_ I beg you, right there."

His cock is leaking with precome again, flush and throbbing, and Jaskier reaches down to run his thumb over the tip, wrap his fingers around the base, but Geralt grabs his wrist before he can to do so, his grip almost painfully tight. He could easily leave bruises there, and the thought of that makes Jaskier's head spin.

"No," Geralt says, and though he's breathless, his voice is firm. "If you want to come again, you'll come just like this."

Everything he says, Jaskier wants to obey. Unquestioningly, unconditionally, just comply with every order.

"Anything you want," he sniffles, voice shaking with lust and pleasure. 

Geralt moves faster, hitting just the right spot every time, his lips and teeth all over Jaskier's neck and shoulders and chest, everywhere he can reach, pushing the bard closer to the edge with every hard thrust of his hips and leaving bruises on his thighs in the shape of his spread fingers that Jaskier knows he'll look at for days afterwards, feeling marked and claimed and _owned_. 

"Tell me I'm yours," he pleads, feeling tears in the corners of his eyes again and not even sure if Geralt can make out the words behind his moans and sobs and whimpers. 

But Geralt does. 

He grins, sharp canine dangerous and captivating, like a wolf's, digs his fingers into the hair on the back of the bard's head, and pulls him closer, until they're chest to chest. 

"You're mine, bard," he whispers, the grip of his fingers getting tighter. "No matter how many lovers you've had or are going to have, _you're mine_."

Geralt's voice turns into a low growl again, and that's enough to push Jaskier over the edge, enough to make him come the second time, biting into the witcher's neck to muffle a loud, broken moan. His entire consciousness shatters into pieces, not allowing him to move or talk or think, only tremble with his entire body and take in loud, shallow breaths. 

Jaskier's body goes completely limp in the witcher's hands, he can't even hold on to him anymore, but he doesn't have to for Geralt comes a second after he does, throwing his head back and spilling deep into the bard's body in one- two- three hard thrusts, pressing the back of his hand to his lips to silence his moan.

For a long time, they're both just trying to breathe, foreheads pressed together, still shaking with the last echoes of orgasm, and Geralt holds Jaskier safe and close, his arms wrapped around the bard's back, until finally, he lays him down carefully onto the pillows, pulling one of the blankets all the way to his shoulders. 

"Do you ask all your lovers to tell you you belong to them?" he teases, nosing at the bard's neck before leaving a gentle kiss there and lying down next to him, putting the flames in the fireplace out with a move of his wrist. 

Jaskier nuzzles closer to him, resting his head upon the witcher's chest and giving him a soft little moan when Geralt gets his hand into his hair, playing with the dark strands gently. 

"Only the insufferable ones," he smiles, unable to as much as open his eyes, absolutely exhausted. 

He can feel Geralt chuckle, mind hazy with pleasure, and all he manages to do is turn his head just a little to touch his lip to the witcher's chest, before exhaustion washes over him completely and he falls asleep in Geralt's arms, listening to his chest rise and fall steadily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you could probably have noticed, I've got a newfound love for ankles and I blame @valdomarx for it


	4. peaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the amazing support you keep showing me on this work, you're all my treasures ✨

When Jaskier wakes up, it's only a little after the break of dawn, the room filled with a soft blue-green light coming in through the windows and the half-drawn curtains. 

His entire body is a low, pleasant ache that grows sharper as he turns his head and disturbs the bite on his neck - a sweet little reminder of the night before. 

Geralt is pressed close against his back, arm thrown over the bard's waist, their legs tangled together, and if it wasn't for Jaskier's body finally catching up on the exhaustion and demanding water, he would've gladly stayed just like that until one of them would have to get up; would've stayed like that for the entire day, safe and warm in the witcher's arms.

But, with great reluctance, Jaskier slips out of his embrace, careful not to wake Geralt up, and reaches for the pitcher on the bedside table, thanking every god he knows that it's right there and he doesn't have to get out of bed. 

The water is blissfully cold, and the bard barely suppresses a moan as it flows down his throat. He can't remember the last time he'd been left so exhausted, so thoroughly fucked-out after having spent a night with someone, and every mark burns on his skin like fire, making him feel claimed and owned. 

The mirror is too far away for Jaskier to look into, but as he moves the blanket to the side and runs his gaze over himself, he can feel his heart stutter at the amount of love-bites, bruises and bite marks on his thighs and chest and shoulders. He can only imagine what his neck looks like, but he will definitely have to button his doublet all the way up or wear a scarf the next time he's performing if he doesn't want too much unnecessary attention. 

Geralt is also covered in marks - though to a lesser degree - and, as he stirs and turns to lay on his stomach, Jaskier can see the scratch marks he'd left of his shoulders and back, all of them a sharp contrast against the witcher's pale skin. 

He can't help himself, leaning in to touch his lips to the witcher's shoulder, and though he tries not to wake him up, Geralt's fair eyelashes still flutter as he opens his eyes, the amber glowing softly in the darkness. 

"If I know anything about you, I know that it's way too early for you to be up," he smiles, voice thick and husky with sleep. 

There's something about the morning light that makes his hair seem even lighter than it is, something that softens his features, and for a second, Jaskier feels like he'd known him forever. 

"Just needed a little water," he says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Geralt hums something to himself, lifting an arm to beckon Jaskier back into his embrace, and the bard gladly accepts it, nestling in close to him and nosing at the witcher's neck, their bodies fitting together perfectly. 

He's half-asleep, lids heavy, but he doesn't want to drift back off just yet, so Jaskier uses this opportunity to run soft little kisses up Geralt's neck, the witcher's short stubble rough against his lips, press his nose to the delicate skin right under the sharp of his jaw, breathing in the comforting, earthy scent that is both new and oh so familiar to him. 

There's something special about the very early hours of the morning, when the entire world is so quiet that it's easy to forget about it completely. 

Travelling with Geralt, Jaskier's come to terms with having to wake up this early - though he'd never really gotten used to it - and even though he did grow to love riding out this early in the morning, the Path empty in front of them, every time they'd stayed at an inn, he'd wish for nothing more but to stay in bed, warm and content. 

And now it feels like he's finally getting that well-deserved rest. 

"You're warm," he murmurs, nuzzling into the witcher's broad chest. 

Geralt huffs a laugh, one of his hands coming up to wrap around the bard's shoulders, the other one somewhere on the small of his back. 

"An I really?" he enquires.

Jaskier hooks a leg over his hips, making himself even more comfortable and settling for the default answer he'd learned from the witcher's other version over the years.

"Hmm."

It's way too early to even think about getting up, and the bard just pulls the blanket all the way to his shoulders, throwing one arm over Geralt's chest to keep him close. The witcher doesn't protest but doesn't settle in to go back to sleep, either. When Jaskier's eyes flick to him, Geralt smiles almost apologetically. 

"I need to go collect my- well, our coin for the hunt," he says softly, dipping his head to press a gentle kiss into Jaskier's hair. "Do you want to come with or do you want to stay in bed and wait for me here, hm?"

Jaskier can't remember when was the last time he'd waited for someone in bed. Can't even remember if he's ever done that at all.

"I'll stay here," he smiles, pressing his lips to Geralt's prominent collarbone. "Will you check on Cerbin for me?"

The witcher responses with something unintelligible but content, and Jaskier closes his eyes blissfully, throwing one leg over the older man's thigh, not planning on letting him go any time soon. A part of him wants to push Geralt down onto his back, climb right on top so that he can feel his body as close as possible, but he just feels too good to move. With the witcher's strong arms wrapped around him, Jaskier feels warm and comfortable but - most of all - safe. 

He reaches one hand up, slowly blinking his eyes open, to brush a strand of hair out of Geralt's face and reach up to kiss him, the feeling of the witcher's lips on his own sending a wave of pleasant weakness down his back. It seems to have been forever since he'd woken up in someone's bed and didn't have to leave unnoticed, and even longer since he'd woken up not alone. 

"Stay," he breathes into the witcher's lips, breaking away. "Don't go anywhere, stay with me."

Geralt chuckles fondly, catching the bard's wrist in a soft grip to pull his hand up to his lips and press a kiss to his fingertips, calloused from years of performing. 

"I won't be long," he promises, his lips warm and soft on Jaskier's skin as Geralt runs his kisses down his palm and over the inner side of the wrist. "Only a couple of hours, you'll fall asleep again and won't even notice."

Though Jaskier wants to protest, he just can't bring himself to. 

Though the morning is warm - unusually warm for the end of April - when the blanket slips off the bard's shoulder, he can still feel goosebumps run down his skin and huddles closer to Geralt, looking for more warmth. It's not like he'd never done that with this realm's version of the witcher but they both always were significantly more clothed and Jaskier could only allow himself such pleasure on truly cold nights so that he could justify not staying on his side of the bed. And though Geralt would never really protest, just grunting in his usual manner, he'd never wrap his arms around the beard, either.

Sometimes Jaskier doubted if Geralt even knew about his feelings. 

And though it seemed like it should've been easier that way, it wasn't. 

"What are you thinking about?" the witcher enquires, pulling the blanket back up and leaning down to brush his lips over Jaskier's collarbone when the bard turns to lie on his back. "You scent's changed."

Jaskier chuckles and shakes his head, getting both his hands into Geralt's tangled hair to pull him into a long kiss, breath hitching as the witcher bites his lip. Not painfully but hard enough to indicate that he's not happy with the lack of an answer. 

However, he lets the bard be, choosing to kiss him rather than ask the question again, and Jaskier can't help but lean in closer with his entire body, tangling their legs together like he's trying to keep him close even though he knows that he'll have to let Geralt go soon. He can feel himself slipping further and further into sleep again, the long, sweet kisses only adding to it, but he still finds it in him to blink his eyes open for just a couple more minutes. Just to savour the morning for a little while longer. 

Geralt noses at his neck, touches his lips to the bite mark, soft enough not to cause any pain, and makes some kind of a pleased little noise somewhere in the back of his throat when Jaskier brushes his fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his head. 

"Why did you cut your hair?" he asks, having to concentrate a little too hard to form words into sentences. 

Geralt laughs quietly, his breath warm against the bard's skin. 

"Because of Ciri," he says, smiling in a way that Jaskier hasn't seen him - or his other version - smile before. "She kept pulling on it when she was younger, trying to get my attention, and eventually I grew tired enough to cut it. It then turned out that living with shorter hair is much easier, so I keep it this way."

Jaskier blinks slowly, trying his hardest to remember if he's ever heard that name before but realising soon enough that he hasn't.

"Who's Ciri?" he enquires, keeping himself awake by willpower alone.

The witcher lifts his head, eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

"Haven't you-" he starts but cuts himself short, looking away before catching the bard's gaze again. "What year is it?"

Jaskier runs a hand over his face, concentrating. 

"Twelve forty-eight."

He can hear Geralt curse under his breath. 

"Fuck," he says. "Should've realised that yesterday, when you've told me that you've been travelling with your Geralt for less than a decade."

Making an effort over himself, Jaskier props himself up on his elbows, taking in a deep breath and trying to blink the sleep away. Geralt smiles at him but the bard can see a shadow of pain slither through his amber eyes. 

"Is something wrong?" he asks softly, even though he feels like he already knows the answer.

For a second, Geralt looks like he's about to say something but then he just smiles again and shakes his head, planting a gentle kiss on Jaskier's shoulder. It's pleasant and comforting but, apparently, avoiding conversations is an essential trait for the witcher, no matter which version. 

"Go back to sleep," he says softly, nosing at the bard's neck before touching his lips to it. "I'll be back before long."

Jaskier wants to say something but stops himself, knowing that getting Geralt to talk if he doesn't want to has as much probability at being effective as trying to kill an acrhgriffin with bare hands. So he just sighs, waving a dismissive hand at the witcher and goes back to his pillows, hiding his face in them, Geralt's scent washing over him in a wave of cedarwood and something else - something deeper, warmer; the way earth smells after a long summer rain. 

He's already almost completely asleep when he hears Geralt ask:

"Do you want anything from the market? I'll be passing it on my way back."

It takes Jaskier a few very longs seconds to comprehend the question, and even longer to come up with an answer, sleep tugging mercilessly at both his body and his consciousness. 

"Peaches," he finally murmurs, unable to as much as open his eyes. "They're-"

"Your favourite," Geralt smiles, leaving one last little kiss on the bard's shoulder. "I know."

***

The sun is already high in the sky, filling the entire room with golden light, when Jaskier wakes up for the second time. 

The bed beside him is empty and his heart skips a beat without him meaning for it to, but before the bard can make up at least one reason for it being that way, he can hear rustling in the far corner of the room and turns to find Geralt rummaging through pieces of parchment on the table there. Jaskier can see something in his body shift nearly imperceptibly as the witcher picks up the change in his breathing and heartbeat. 

"Was it too lonely to sleep without me?" he grins, teasing, and Jaskier finds that he really hates that he's fully clothed. 

"Oh, _terribly_ ," he breathes, sitting up on the bed and mirroring the grin. "Surely, you won't put me through that again?"

Geralt laughs, shaking his hair out of his face, and comes closer, leaning down to kiss the bard sweetly on the lips. Jaskier can feel himself melting immediately. 

"Thought about you," the witcher murmurs, tipping Jaskier's chin up and finding his way to his neck, making him lean back until he falls back onto the pillows. "It's a nice image to paint for myself: you waiting for me in bed, naked and covered in my marks."

"Geralt-" Jaskier's breath hitches and he can feel the all-too-familiar heat spill through his chest. 

Tugging on his hair, Jaskier guides the witcher back to his lips, licking into his mouth because he just cannot get enough. Not now, when he's so close to what he'd wanted for the last eight years. Wanted more than anything he'd ever wanted in life, the need turning into an ache from knowing that it's not something that he can ever have. 

Geralt returns the kiss, letting Jaskier keep the initiative but, when the bard tries to pull him onto the bed with him, smiles into his lips and breaks away. 

"I'm making elixirs," he says, indicating at the table with a move of his head. "Hold that thought, my darling."

_My darling._

Jaskier makes a disheartened sound but lets him go, watching Geralt fumble with all the little bottles before getting out of bed, as well, draping the blanket over himself and not really planning on dressing up any time soon. 

He tries to, he really does, but he can't resist the urge to touch, his fingertips itching with the need for it. He comes closer to the witcher, pressing himself to his back and watching over his shoulder how he mixes a few brightly coloured liquids in separate phials, hands quick and sure as he works. 

"Anything sparks your interest?" Geralt inquires, tilting his head to brush his lips over the bard's cheek. 

Though Jaskier isn't sure just how exactly Geralt's armour works, he's willing to figure it out experimentally, running his hand down the man's chest until he finds the first buckle only to undo it immediately, not happy with the feeling of sturdy armour against his bare skin in the slightest. 

Geralt does not protest - nor does he help, seemingly making a point out of having Jaskier figure it all out on his own - and the bard takes that as an invitation, searching for all the other buckles without looking, running his hands shamelessly over the witcher's chest and abdomen. He's probably distracting him, getting in the way of making potions, but self-restriction has never been his strongest suit, and when he finally feels the fabric of Geralt's shirt under his fingers, he grins widely, oh so proud of himself. 

"Take it off," he demands, voice only a little husky. 

Geralt turns around to face him, cocking a brow in mild amusement. 

"Giving me orders, bard?" 

He doesn't make a single motion to remove his armour and Jaskier sighs impatiently, knowing a little too well that _making_ the witcher do something is absolutely impossible. Geralt reaffirms that thought, tilting his head to the side in a gesture that Jaskier adores to the very bottom of his heart but that's also a little _too_ familiar. 

" _You're just like him_ ," he rolls his eyes, making Geralt huff an amused laugh.

Leaving his elixirs, the witcher steps closer, invading Jaskier's space shamelessly and brushing a completely disarming kiss over his lips. 

"Am I?"

In order to keep his blanket in place, Jaskier has to keep himself from wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck even though he really wants to, unable to even pretend to be displeased in any way. The blanket, however, doesn't get in the way of him cathing the witcher's medallion if his hand and tugging on it to pull Geralt into a proper kiss. He can feel the medallion tremble slightly beneath his fingers but thinking about that is not something that he's really capable of doing when he's got Geralt licking into his mouth, so he just lets it go once again. 

The witcher pulls him closer, one hand on the small of Jaskier's back and the other one somewhere on his hip, deft fingers slipping under the bard's blanket to brush over his bare skin. Geralt's phials and bottles clink against each other as he presses Jaskier against the table, kissing him harder. Jaskier shudders as the witcher bites him, leaning into his every touch shamelessly and feeling his lungs burn with the lack of air.

"Come back to bed," he beckons, breaking away for only a second, taking in a shallow breath.

Geralt switches his attention to the bard's throat, touching his lips gently to the healing bite mark before sucking a bright-red love-bite onto the tender skin right above it and letting Jaskier go.

"Not yet," he says.

Jaskier curses under his breath, painfully aware that he's half-hard from just a couple of kisses. He can't help but wonder what Geralt would do if he were to slip down to his knees right this moment and he almost gives in to the temptation of finding out but before he can break, Geralt kisses him one last time and nods towards the smaller table, set by the window. 

"I got you your fruit," he murmurs, ruffling Jaskier's hair with a laugh. "Enjoy."

It is incredibly hard to be mad at him when he acts like that. 

" _Insufferable-_ " Jaskier hisses, making sure it's loud enough for Geralt to hear, even though he knows that the witcher would've heard him even if he were to say it as quietly as humanly possible.

He retreats to a wide armchair by the window, making himself as comfortable as he only can, and reaches into a bowl full of peaches, picking out the one he likes the most and biting into the sweet flesh of the fruit, sucking in a breath as he feels sweet juice run down his hand and wrist. 

Geralt turns around, intrigued, and rolls his eyes immediately. 

"I just cannot leave you alone for a second, can I?" he smiles, both teasingly and fondly.

Jaskier wants to say something in his defence, he really does, but before he can come up with anything, Geralt already closes in the distance between them and catches the bard's wrist in a soft grip, lifting it up to his lips and following the trail of nectar with his tongue, never breaking the eye contact. Jaskier bites his lip, his breathing suddenly getting heavier, and clenches his fingers, digging them into the flesh of the fruit. The witcher grins at him but keeps his game up, pressing his tongue harder to the delicate skin of the bard's wrist and licking a strip all the way up to his palm before leaning in and kissing him, lips sweet. 

Jaskier moans softly into the kiss, his other hand coming up to tangle in Geralt's hair. It's maddening, the things the witcher does to him. 

"I swear to the gods, Witcher-" he breathes out, pulling back just enough to brush his fingers - sweet and sticky with nectar - over his lips and slide them into his mouth. "Do that one more time and I will fuck you right here on this very chair. And I will not pay the slightest mind to your elixirs or to anything else."

"Oh," Geralt huffs an amused laugh, running his tongue over the bard's fingers. "I would very much like to see you try."

With his mind, Jaskier knows that the witcher is just teasing him, but it's truly impossible not to give in to it. 

Putting all the strength he's got in his body into it, Jaskier pulls Geralt towards him and even though the witcher loses his balance for a fraction of a second, he's too strong for Jaskier to stand even the slightest chance. 

"Looks to me like you don't have any other choice but to be patient, do you?" the witcher murmurs, nosing at Jaskier's neck, right over his own marks. 

Despite his words, Geralt kisses a line up the bard's neck, all the way to the sharp of his jaw, lingers there for a second and continues it all the way to his lips, stopping mere inches away from them and, showing off sharp teeth in a grin, pulls back, leaving Jaskier with nothing. 

The bard promises himself that he will eventually quit allowing the witcher to play with him like that but eventually is not now. 

He sighs theatrically, knowing that there is no use in trying to keep Geralt close, so he lets go of his wrist, letting him get back to his elixirs which Geralt studies critically, eyes narrowed. Jaskier bites his lip, a question he's been meaning to ask since yesterday on repeat in his head. It's right there, on the tip of his tongue, but it still takes him a few very long minutes to muster up the courage.

"Do you have any more contracts in the area?" he asks, making himself sound as casual as possible.

Geralt doesn't turn to him, too busy with grinding something up and Jaskier doesn't even want to try and guess what exactly. But something in his shoulders changes. 

"No," he says, and despite himself, Jaskier can feel his heart sink. "But I'll stay for a couple more days. Looks like a nice place to spend Belleteyn."

Though Jaskier knows that Geralt can hear his quickened heartbeat, he cannot help himself. 

"Staying for Belleteyn, then?" he murmurs, shifting in the soft armchair to make himself even more comfortable, one leg thrown over the armrest and dangling in the air. "Why here?"

Geralt gives him a little look over the shoulder, one corner of his lips curled up in a sharp grin. 

"Would be a shame to leave good company."

Fuck, Jaskier thinks, Get your goddamn elixirs _over with_ already.

"Ah, well, you know," he says instead, knowing that the witcher is still watching him and letting one of the corners of his blanket slip, almost accidentally. "The two pretty barmaids downstairs do seem very interested in me. I'm afraid I'm going to need a very good reason to be so awfully rude as to leave them with nothing." 

For some time, Geralt doesn't reply and Jaskier already thinks if he might've somehow taken it too far but then the witcher finally sets all of his little phials aside and comes closer, leaning down to be on eye level with the bard.

"The reason is very simple," he says calmly, only the glint in his amber eyes giving him away. "You're mine."

***

By the time they let each other go, it's only a little over an hour before sunset and the room is full of golden light, long shadows playing on the wood of the floor and walls.

The bed is a complete mess, but Jaskier doesn't care in the slightest, sated and content, his head on Geralt's chest as he runs his fingers up and down a long scar on the witcher's shoulder. 

"We should really get ourselves a bath, you know," Geralt murmurs without making any movement to actually get up. "We're both a mess."

Despite the flashes of pain in fresh bites on his neck and shoulders, Jaskier still props himself up on one elbow, narrowing his eyes at the man like he's testing his limits. 

"What, do you not like me this way, Witcher?"

Geralt doesn't break under his gaze. 

"It's not very reasonable of you to tease me if you know you can't take another round."

Jaskier gasps in theatrical offence but just as he moves his hand to press in over his heart, Geralt intercepts his wrist and pins Jaskier back to the bed, making him yelp in surprise but then just laugh, throwing both arms around the witcher's neck.

His entire body aches in the sweetest of ways and he's unsure or whether or not he's capable of as much as getting out of bed but he can't remember the last time he felt so good, last time he felt like he's where he's supposed to be. And even though the thought of this realm's Geralt did cross his mind one or two times throughout the long, pleasure-filled hours spent in bed, he never held it. 

Just like the night before, the witcher was both rough and gentle with him, making Jaskier tremble and shatter into pieces under his lips and hands and teeth. 

"Tell me something," Jaskier asks as they shift back into their initial position, his head resting on the older man's chest. "A witcher story."

He's not really expecting one, used to this realm's witcher's lack of talkativeness and the fact that he would sometimes talk to his own horse more that to the bard, but he's reminded of just how different this Geralt is when he runs his fingers through Jaskier's hair, humming something content. 

"Do you want me to tell you about my first draconid?"

Following his example, Jaskier hums. 

"It was only a few years after I finished my training in Kaer Morhen and set out onto the Path," Geralt starts, playing with the bard's hair. "Like any young witcher, I was overwhelmingly ambitious and wanted to prove myself, so the moment I heard that there's a wyvern terrorising villagers on the banks of Pontar, a little southeast of Tretogor, I set out in that direction, nearly shaking with excitement."

He laughs quietly at his memories and Jaskier can feel his chest shake with it. 

"Back then I was already somewhat used to the way most people react when they see a witcher, especially one with stand-out white hair, so when the villagers ran _towards_ me and not _from_ me, I knew it was bad. They told me the beast had been stealing their animals for a couple of months but after they tried to fend it off, it got significantly angrier and took two people over the span of only a little over a week. Everyone was too paralyzed with fear to get back to working in the field but if they didn't fix that soon, the harvest would be lost."

Jaskier closes his eyes, taking it all in. The sound of the witcher's voice, the feeling of his hand in his hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Pictures everything he's saying, listening to the slow heartbeat between his ribs. He's not thinking of good rhymes for a ballad, like he usually would. Not thinking of the music he could compose to go along with it.

He's not thinking of anything, just drowning in his own content pleasure. 

"Of course, I couldn't tell them that I've never hunted a wyvern before," Geralt chuckles, running his thumb over a spot behind the bard#s ear that makes his shudder. "I've read about them in books and manuscripts but there were never too many draconids around Kaer Morhen so I never got the chance to train in hunting one. Despite that, I still accepted the job, found out where the villagers though the nest were and got all my equipment ready. Due to the mutations, my knees weren't weak physically but I still felt like they were, and the feeling grew more and more, the closer I got to the nest. I was still very eager to prove myself but I was also getting nervous, thinking about the claws and teeth I knew wyverns possess. Wasn't sure if I knew the right technique to fight it." 

Jaskier perks up, lifting his head from the witcher's chest.

"Oh? The Great White Wolf suddenly lacking confidence?"

Geralt cracks one amber eye open, giving the bard a dismissive look. 

"Do you really want me to get you down onto your knees again?"

Jaskier can feel his cheeks flush and averts his eyes, hiding his face in the crook of the witcher's neck. He smells of sweat and sex and _Jaskier_ , which makes the bard take in a deeper breath, almost moaning. 

"That's better," the witcher hums, laughing when Jaskier bites him in response. "One I took my elixirs, the adrenaline kicked in, and suddenly, there was no fear left," he goes on. "My body seemed to be working on its own, years upon years in Kaer Morhen guiding me easily through the fight. The elixirs take some getting used to, and back then they still affected me more than normal, which led to me only snapping back to reality when the wyvern slasher at my shoulder. The scar is mostly faded by now but that was probably my first major one."

Intrigued, Jaskier lifts his head to examine Geralt's shoulder - one that's closer to him - and, once he finds a scar that, in his mind, looks like the right one, immediately brushes his lips over it, warm and gentle. 

"This one?"

Geralt makes a pleased little sound. "Hmm."

Before settling back down, Jaskier presses another kiss to the same spot. 

"I've never seen a wyvern. Or any draconid, really. Geralt would never allow me to come along if he had a contract for one of those," he sighs, a little more dramatically than absolutely necessary.

He still hasn't settled on a way of distinguishing the two witchers but just calling them both "Geralt" was slowly but surely driving him insane. There was a lot of unresolved feeling in his chest as it is, and having his mind snap back to this realm's Geralt - _his_ Geralt - wasn't making it any better. He wasn't afraid of falling hopelessly in love with yet another version of him, knowing that there is nothing that he can do about his heart, but the thought of not being able to separate those two feelings, to tell them apart was a prickling, seeping cold somewhere between his ribs. 

Jaskier bites his lip, hiding his face in the crook of Geralt's neck even further, to clear his head out. If they only have a couple of days together, he's not going to waste his time letting his own feelings and fears get the best of him. 

The witcher stirs, throwing his head back to give more access. 

"Doesn't he know that you hunt?" he asks.

Jaskier makes a face, even though he knows Geralt can't see him. 

"Oh, _he knows_. Just keeps treating me like I'm going to fall into pieces from the slightest wound."

The older man chuckles, running his thumb down an uneven scar on the bard's shoulder blade. His touch sends sparks down Jaskier's spine and he leans into it without even thinking. 

"What is the largest thing you're ever fought?"

For the first time in what seems like years, Jaskier feels so exhausted with pleasure that he can hardly find it in him to talk and there are a few long, comfortable seconds of silence before he finally replies:

"A katakan, few years back."

Sometimes, Jaskier thinks, I do stupid things. 

Judging by the way Geralt props himself up on one elbow to look at him, he shares his opinion. 

" _A katakan_?" he repeats. "Tell me you were drunk out of your mind."

Highly displeased with having lost his hiding place, Jaskier turns to his back, nor breaking under the gaze of the witcher's amber eyes. In the golden light of the setting sun, they seem even more captivating than usual. The colour, Jaskier notices, is a bit different to what he'd gotten used to in the last eight years. 

"You know perfectly well that if I was drunk back then, it would've ripped me to shreds before I as much as drew my sword."

All Jaskier can really remember is that it was a strange night. But otherwise, his memories are a blur and whatever he does he can't figure out why. 

"I can barely remember that hunt," he confesses, getting his hands into the witcher's tangled hair when he lays his head onto his chest. "I remember that it hurt at some point. Sharp, hot pain right below my ribs, like it slashed me with its claws. But when the beast finally fell and I got out of my armour to check, there was barely a scratch on me."

Geralt shifts to look at him, the medallion a steady soft tremble on his chest. 

"Was there blood?" he asks.

Jaskier tries very hard to remember but the memories are just flashes in front of his eyes.

_Nearly-full moon. The forest whispering around him. He can almost make out the words. The silver shining in his hand, stained with blood. Blood on his clothes, his hands, his face. A low thrum of euphoria._

"I don't know if it was mine," he finally sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to cancel out the noise of memories in his head. "There was too much blood to tell."

For a few seconds, Geralt is silent, his gaze fixed on something in the corner of the room.

"Did you feel anything, when you killed it?" he finally asks, a softness to his voice like he's unsure if that's a question he's allowed to ask. "Anything out of the ordinary?"

_A flash of pure pleasure. Heat ripping through his veins like fire. The night air suddenly feeling colder, fresher. The tremble in his fingers gone._

Jaskier takes in a breath and shrugs. "Pleasure, like always. Heat of adrenaline and euphoria. If there was something unusual, I don't remember."

Geralt hums, closing his eyes and even if he wants to say something else, for one reason or another, he decides against it. 

"Let's go take that bath, hm?" he smiles instead, touching his lips to the bard's chest and rolling out of bed to help him get up.

***

One of the best things about this inn, Jaskier decides, is the size of the bathtubs that the owner has to offer.

There's more than enough space for both him and Geralt, and even though the hot water makes all the bites and marks on his body sting, it still feels heavenly as he closes his eyes and allows the witcher to pull him closer to his chest. 

The water smells of lavender and cedarwood - a warm, comforting smell that seems to shut all the thoughts out of Jaskier's mind, leaving nothing but content pleasure and a soft thrum of something sweet deep in his chest. 

"Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?" the witcher enquires, nosing at the bard's exposed neck and running a line of soft dry kisses all the way to his jaw. "Or are you staying with me?"

Jaskier knows he should perform tomorrow. He's got enough coin to last him a few weeks but it's hard to find an audience as big and as generous any other time other than the days leading up to Belleteyn. And even though the town is small, it seems to attract a lot of people from the nearby villages and just travellers passing by, all of them drawn in by the meadows that will light up with bonfires in just a couple of days. 

"I'll go downstairs in the evening, perform for an hour or two," he finally decides, turning to lay his head onto the older man's chest, listening to the slow heartbeat. "Will you come watch?"

As soon as Jaskier's comfortable, Geralt gets one hand into his hair, playing with the strands and scratching softly at his scalp, making the bard lean into it, falling into pieces from just how good it feels. It's so effortless, so gentle that it's like they've been together for years and the thought of that somehow makes Jaskier's heart seize painfully for a short second. 

All these years travelling the Path, this is what he wanted. 

And he still doesn't understand if Destiny is giving him another chance or just teasing, giving him something so close to what it is that he wants most only to take in away in a few short days. 

"You _do_ need someone to keep the too-insistent admirers away from you, don't you?" Geralt chuckles, pulling the bard out of his thoughts and back onto the present. "And I have to admit, I _am_ rather intrigued by what else you've got to say about me."

Jaskier shoves him in the shoulder with no real strength. 

"They're not about _you_ ," he points out, blushing for a reason that he cannot comprehend. 

"Oh, sure," the witcher teases, his other hand coming to rest on Jaskier's waist. "Just about my other version."

Instead of answering, Jaskier twists and bites him on the collarbone, yelping when the witcher suddenly pulls him closer but then just laughing into his lips as Geralt pulls him into a kiss, all sharp teeth. 

It seems to have been years since Jaskier last allowed himself to just fool around like that, not caring about anything else in the world. 

"We're gonna splash the water everywhere," he laughs but doesn't protest when Geralt shifts both of them, practically getting the bard to lay on top of him, chest to chest. "The innkeeper _will not_ be happy about that."

"The innkeeper won't be happy with what we did to the bed, either," the witcher grins and Jaskier blushes _again_. 

To hide the colour spilling over his cheeks, Jaskier finds his way to Geralt's neck, taking his time with slowly sucking marks onto it, even though there's barely any space left for them, the witcher's neck, shoulders and chest covered completely in bite marks and love-bites. 

Geralt throws his head back, granting more access, running both his hands slowly up and down the bard's back, and for a long time, they just stay like that, mindlessly kissing and touching, no lust between them, just warm, nearly lazy comfort. 

The water stays as hot as it was, and it can only be one of Geralt's little tricks but before Jaskier can ask what else can he do with Igni, he remembers something else. 

"Geralt?" he calls, pulling back just enough to see the witcher's face. 

Geralt still has his head thrown over the rim of the tub and just hums in response, indicating that Jaskier's got his attention. 

"In the morning, when I told you what year it is, why did you react like that?"

For a long second, Geralt's hands still on his back, the witcher's entire body tensing, but it's gone just as fast and Geralt lifts his head, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, catching the bard's gaze. 

"You said it's twelve forty-eight, right?"

"Spring, yes."

Geralt's expression remains the same but something deep in his eyes changes, a shadow slithering over the softly glowing amber. 

He reaches one hand up and brushes a lock of hair away from Jaskier's eyes, fingertips lingering behind his ear for a few seconds before Geralt finally answers his question:

"There are twenty-eight years between our realms."


	5. may night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you so much, my darlings  
> without you, this would not be happening

"Are we going to celebrate with the others? Tonight?"

The sun is at its zenith, so bright that it's blinding, and Jaskier has to put a hand over his eyes to look at Geralt as they ride through a secluded valley, covered with a yellow blanket of dandelions. It was raining the entire night and now the earth is so full of life that Jaskier can feel it in his fingertips when he jumps down from the saddle to run his fingers through the tall grass. 

Geralt stops Roach next to Cerbin and also dismounts, stretching with a soft moan. 

"Of course," he says, getting down to lie on his back, his pupils nothing bit thin vertical slits when he looks up at Jaskier. "It's my favourite night of the year."

It's warm, and he's only got his white shirt on, the armour left back at the inn, and Jaskier can't help but let his gaze linger for just a while longer before settling down next to him.

It's been three days now.

Three days spent in bed, talking, drinking and fucking. The innkeeper _did_ knock on the door once or twice to complain about how loud they are but in the end, Jaskier just promised to play for a few hours on Belleteyn and the conflict had been resolved. 

"I was going to celebrate with the barmaids, you know," Jaskier murmurs, throwing one leg over Geralt's to shamelessly saddle his hips. "Lovely young creatures, they are."

Instead of protesting, Geralt brings his hands up to rest them on Jaskier's thighs, his fingers a gentle, steady pressure. 

"You're free to do that still," he shrugs, the already-familiar half-grin on his lips. "Though I'm afraid you'll miss me."

I _am_ going to miss you, Jaskier thinks, When you leave in a day or two and all of this will be over. 

"Not getting rid of me that easy, Witcher," he smiles instead, running both his hands up the older man's chest, feeling it rise and fall steadily. 

Geralt rumbles low in his throat, rubbing little circles onto Jaskier's left thigh with his thumb.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They're both covered in marks and love bites, one of them blooming blood-red right under the sharp of Geralt's jaw and Jaskier can't help but lean down to brush his lips over it, resting his hands at either side of Geralt's head. He can feel his own bite mark just a little lower and leaves a kiss over it, as well, just because he's allowed to. 

"Do you have anything special to wear tonight?" he enquires, nosing at the witcher's neck to get another one of those little rumbles from him. "After all, it's a special night."

Geralt hums, wrapping an arm around the bard's waist to roll them both over, making him yelp in surprise but then break into laughter that Geralt ineffectively silences with a kiss. 

"Maybe I do," he says right into Jaskier's lips. "Would you prefer me in silver or black?"

The valley is completely empty, everyone busy with the May Night preparations and Jaskier doesn't have to worry about anyone seeing them when he reaches up to cup the sharp of the witcher's jaw with his palm and lure him into a long, sweet kiss. He'd always loved kissing others, loved the feeling of someone else's lips on his own but _oh-_ the way Geralt kisses him. 

Jaskier hasn't asked where he'd learned to kiss like that because he knew he'd get childishly jealous but wherever it was, with _whoever_ it was, Geralt could send his head reeling with only a little more than a touch of his lips.

"You do look absolutely dashing in black, my dearest," the bard smiles, breaking away when there is no air left in his lungs. "But Belleteyn calls for something a little more special."

"Silver it is, then."

Before Jaskier can come up with an answer, Geralt's lips are already on his own again and he forgets about the need for a reply overall, just kisses back, one of his hands wrapped around the back of Geralt's neck and the other one tangled in his soft hair. 

He feels comfortable around the witcher, like he'd known him forever. But it's just now that he realises that he doesn't know where the witcher will go when he leaves in a couple of days. 

"Geralt-" he breathes, breaking away. "Back in your realm, do you still live in Kaer Morhen?"

"In Kaer Morhen?" the witcher echoes, kissing a line up Jaskier's neck but compliantly pulling away when the bard blushes and brings both his hands to his shoulders to push him away. "Not in Kaer Morhen, no. I haven't been there since-" he cuts himself short and there's that same shadow of sorrow that slithers over his amber eyes that Jaskier's seen a couple of time now. "I haven't been there in almost a decade. I've left the Northern Kingdoms."

"You've left the Northern Kingdoms?"

Geralt hums, letting Jaskier go and sitting up to stretch his arms out. 

"A few years ago."

Jaskier also sits up, planting a kiss on the witcher's shoulder before reaching for the nearest dandelions to weave them together, squinting at the sun as he looks around the valley for the horses. Roach and Cerbin seem to be getting along exceptionally well and it's proven yet again when Jaskier finds them under a large apple tree, fondly nipping at each other. 

"But if not in the North, where do you live? Skellige?"

Geralt huffs a laugh, watching him put together a flower crown and handing Jaskier more dandelion when there are none left within his reach. 

"Where it's even colder? No, not Skellige. I visit every now and then, greet a few friends, ride through the mountains but I don't live there, no. Try again."

Oh, Jaskier thinks, So it's a guessing game now. 

"Not Nilfgaard, surely?" he asks, cursing under his breath when one of the flower stems rips and he has to change it for a new one. 

"Not Nilfgaard," Geralt agrees. "Technically. But close."

Jaskier lifts his brows in surprise, hid fingers working quick and sure as he works on his flower crown, adding in the dandelions that Geralt keeps stacking on his lap one after another. 

"Not Nilfgaard but close," he mutters, averting his eyes in thought. "Toussaint?"

Geralt hums in agreement, handing Jaskier a particularly large dandelion that the bard puts aside to weave it into the middle of the crown later on. 

"I got a contract from the duchess herself a few years back," the witcher says, turning to lie on his back again, his head resting in Jaskier's lap. "The so-called Beast of Toussaint. I thought it was just another vampire contract but it ended up being much more complicated, I got involved in court affairs that I wanted nothing to do with and, even though it all ended better rather than worse, if I knew from the start what I was going to deal with, I don't know if I would've accepted."

It's impossible not to touch him, Jaskier realises, leaning down to brush his lips over the witcher's nose, unable to reach far enough to kiss him properly. 

"But despite that Toussaint ended up charming you enough that you've decided to stay?"

"That, too," Geralt nods, fumbling with a flower stem in his hands. "It's been a while since I wanted to leave the North. There was nothing holding me there anymore and even the contracts weren't a good enough reason to stay. So when Anarietta decided that I need a place of my own while I'm in Toussaint and gave me a vineyard as an up-front part of my payment, there were no doubts left. It took me some time and effort to renovate it but now it's a real home."

The way the corners of his lips curl up in a soft smile makes Jaskier's heart flutter in his chest. 

"I've never been to Toussaint," he says, weaving the last couple of flowers together and getting his hand into the witcher's hair, playing with the winter-white strands. "Always wanted to go but making that kind of a trip alone just seems a little too much for me and there isn't anyone that would be ready to come with me if I were to ask, really. I've got a few bard friends that - same as me - don't rely on a single place in terms of coin but I doubt any of them would want to travel that far, let alone cross the Amell Mountains."

Very physical in his affections, Jaskier had already found out that Geralt's got a thin little scar behind his right ear that, for one reason or another, turned out to be much more sensitive than Jaskier would've guessed, and now he uses that to his own advantage, brushing his thumb over it to watch Geralt shudder and roll his eyes with pleasure, shamelessly leaning into the touch.

"It's not that hard to cross Amell if you travel from Lyria," he murmurs, eyes closed. "In a couple of decades from now, at least."

"In a couple of decades from now," Jaskier echoes. "Still can't get used to it."

Geralt had barely told him anything, either changing the subject or just kissing the bard silent every time Jaskier tried to ask about what is going to happen in the twenty-seven years that lie between their realms, and soon enough, he just let it go, having decided that if Geralt doesn't want to talk about it, he's not going to insist. 

"And how is it, living in Toussaint?" he asks instead of all the other questions he's got. "Do you make your own wine?"

There's a loud splash from a stream just a little south from where they are, and Geralt instinctively sits up, listening, only to find Cerbin, happily splashing in the cold water and nickering at Roach. The mare is still on the bank, stepping from one leg to another and flicking her ears back forth, indecisive. Geralt smiles at her with the softest fondness in his eyes and turns back to Jaskier, the medallion a steady thrum against his chest. 

"Not yet," he says. "But I'm getting everything ready for it. Luckily, the people working for me know what they're doing and in a year or two, everything's going to be ready for the vineyard to serve its original purpose once again."

In Jaskier's mind, it's a wonderful picture. The vineyard, just like he'd seen on paintings in the Academy, the golden towers of Beauclair and the ribbon of Blessure, shining in the sun. So perfect that it seems a little too good to be true. 

"And do you-" he starts, averting his eyes and blushing despite himself. "Do you live there alone or with someone?"

Geralt falls silent for a minute, his eyes flicking up and down Jaskier's face like he's trying to figure out if he's being serious, but then he just breaks into laughter, leaning closer to press a comforting kiss to the bard's lips.

"Why? Are you jealous?"

By the gods, Jaskier thinks, blushing even more and pushing Geralt away with no real force, Why the fuck did I even ask?

"Not jealous," he blurs out, snatching his flower crown from the ground and placing it on Geralt's head before he can protest. "Just curious."

Geralt stops laughing, reaching his hand up to run the tips of his fingers over the flowers in his hair, and his smile turns from teasing to soft. 

"I live alone," he says, reaching for Jaskier's hand to bring it up to his lips and press a kiss to the fingertips. "If you don't count in my majordomo, Barnabas-Basil."

Though Jaskier kept telling himself that he wasn't going to be jealous even if the witcher were to told him that he does live with someone else, he feels relieved when he hears the answer. 

"We've spent three days in bed together, Jask," Geralt murmurs, almost accusingly. "And you really think I have someone else?"

_Jask._

"Oh, shut up," Jaskier grunts, his cheeks burning as he pushes the witcher onto his back and climbs right on top, having had enough of this conversation.

Before Geralt can as much as protest, Jaskier already kisses him silent. 

***

By the time they get back to the inn, the sun is already setting. 

Both Roach's and Cerbin's saddlebags are filled with herbs for elixirs and salves, their manes full of flowers that Jaskier's lovingly braided in. Geralt just watched at first but then the bard offered he teaches him and Geralt took the offer on, obediently following Jaskier's instructions. 

Jaskier had a slight suspicion that he only did it to please him and not because he was dying to know how to adorn Roach's mane but that just made his heart flutter in his chest with something so close to adoration that if we were to think about it for too long, it would get overwhelming. 

The witcher was... different. 

Different to his own self that Jaskier's gotten used to over the last eight years. 

Jaskier loved this realm's Geralt - ~~_his_~~ Geralt - he really did. He _ached_ with it, knowing perfectly well that his love is unrequited, unwanted. That the witcher thought himself unworthy of love, of good things in general, and kept pushing the bard away, no matter how hard Jaskier tried to show him just how much more he deserves. 

But _this_ Geralt, he wasn't like that. He was _open_. So effortless with his affection - both in physical touch and in the little acts of service - that Jaskier just couldn't help but gravitate towards him, even though it felt like betraying the only man he's ever truly loved. 

But then again, there is only so much that one's heart can bear. 

"Jask?"

Geralt's voice pulls him back into reality and it's just now that Jaskier realises he'd been staring at a crimson shirt he's got in his hands for a couple of minutes now. 

"Hm?" he replies, a habit taken on over the last eight years. 

"Are you with me?"

Jaskier can see the witcher's reflection through the mirror in front of which he's standing. Geralt is watching him from his place in the armchair, already dressed in a silver silk shirt that looks torturously good on him. Jaskier can't help but wonder if he'll be able to talk him into keeping it on later tonight, when they're in bed. 

"I am," he smiles, a little embarrassed. "Just got a little lost in thought."

Geralt hums an affirmative, getting up to come closer and wrap his arms around Jaskier's waist, hugging him from the back and locking eyes with him through the mirror. 

"If you can't decide what shirt to wear, I would suggest you go without one," he murmurs, nosing at the bard's neck and nipping at the delicate skin with sharp teeth, making Jaskier gasp from not having expected it. 

"A tempting suggestion," he smiles, turning around in the man's arms to brush a strand of his silver hair aside only for it to fall back into his eyes a second later. "But one I must decline, I'm afraid. I love it when you undress me, would be a shame to miss the fun like that."

Geralt's still got the dandelion flower crown on his head - to Jaskier's immeasurable delight - and even though the bard's sure it should be somewhat withered by now, the flowers are no less perfect than they were hours ago. It's... unusual but not concerning. 

Geralt hums in mild amusement, his hands coming up to find the laces on the bard's shirt.

"Love it when I undress you, then?"

It's almost time for Jaskier to go downstairs and play as he promised, and he does need to change into the clothes he'll be wearing for the rest of night but if it's Geralt that's going to undress him, the guests might not get to hear any songs at all. So on willpower and professionalism alone, Jaskier takes his hands away from his shirt and lowers them back onto his waist. 

"Patience, Witcher," he murmurs, even though usually it's _him_ that's told to be patient. "I promised to play for a little while, remember?"

Geralt grins in a way that suggests he's got other ideas.

"I could Axii the innkeeper into thinking that you didn't."

Jaskier wrinkles his nose and waves a dismissive hand, turning back to the mirror and taking two more shirts off its edge to hold up to his chest, studying the reflection critically. 

"That's a Cat move."

Through the mirror, he can see Geralt's brows lift in surprise.

"A _Cat move_?" he echoes. "How do you even know that?"

Jaskier already knows what short he's going to wear - he'd known from the beginning - but he still indulges in taking his time trying on the other three options that he's got, just to watch Geralt's eyes move across his body.

"Ah, well, you know," he says vaguely, doing up the buttons on the sleeves of a dark-blue shirt. "Though my lovely companion of eight years is not the talkative type - unlike you, might I add - from time to time we do have wonderful night-long conversations. He tends to open up quite a bit when we camp under the stars and have a drink or two."

Jaskier does up all the button of his shirt, save for the two top ones, and gives himself a critical look in the mirror only to immediately decide that this is not what he wants to wear and go back to his buttons, undoing them one by one with no hurry whatsoever. 

"He told me quite a lot about the other Schools. Spoke rather fondly of the School of the Griffin, I've noticed. But Cats are much less of a favourite of his."

That's not the _whole_ truth about how Jaskier knows about those Schools but it's not a lie, either, so he considers his conscience clean and if he blushes, it's only a little. 

"Griffins-" Geralt says, a little slow. "I suppose, he's right. Aside from the other Wolves, it's only a Griffin I've ever considered a brother."

At that, Jaskier blushes significantly more and lowers his eyes just in time not to see a shadow of pain on the witcher's face. But just like all the times before, it's there and then it's gone, so quick that it's enough to as much as blink to miss it. 

"Why are you blushing?" Geralt enquires, already back to his usual self. 

"No reason," Jaskier replies quickly, finally reaching for the wine-coloured shirt that he'd chosen days prior. "I've got an audience waiting, I'll tell you later."

With that, he throws on his shirt, adjusts the laces and touches his lips to Geralt's cheek in a chaste kiss, his lute already on his shoulder.

A second later, he's gone. 

***

He plays for a couple of hours, just as promised. 

The tavern is filled to the brim with people, the crowd so dense that Jaskier loses sight of Geralt on multiple occasions, but even then he feels the witcher's tentative eyes on him. 

Everyone is dressed in their best clothes, the usual off-white and grey traded for just about every colour Jaskier can think of. 

They listen eagerly to the songs about the White Wolf, singing along loud enough for Jaskier's heart to absolutely melt and when he decided to play a few songs that are traditionally sung on Belleteyn in these regions, the response is so overwhelming that he has to blink tears away from his eyes. 

And as he finishes his performance and makes his way back to Geralt who's watching him from the same place by the bar as he did when they've met, there are pats on his shoulders, cheers in his name and drinks pushed into his hands. One of the barmaids - the younger one - even steals a quick little kiss from his lips, and by the time he finally joins the witcher, his cheeks are flush with colour. 

"Dandelion would kill me if he ever found out that I said this," Geralt chuckles, taking a swig of what seems to his third ale. "But you sing better than him."

"Do I, now?" Jaskier murmurs, ducking under the witcher's arm to press himself to his chest, paying absolutely no mind to whoever might be watching. "Such a sweet talker."

He's already a little drunk from all the liqueur that his audience kept buying him and when he reaches up for a kiss, it's just a little more heated than he would normally consider socially acceptable. He's never been a big fan of public display of affection overall but gods, when it came to Geralt he found himself unable of keeping his hands to himself. 

Geralt returns the kiss with careful tenderness, keeping the fire in Jaskier's chest at bay, but when the bard throws his arms around his neck to pull him even closer, he breaks away, smiling at him in a way that makes Jaskier shiver with anticipation. 

"Come on," he says. "Let's get out of here."

***

The fields are lit up with what seems like thousands of fires when they make their way through them, looking for a place they like best. 

As they walk, Jaskier shamelessly clinging onto the witcher's arm, there are both men and women that smile at them, most of them already half-naked, inviting them to share their blanket and if Jaskier had been with anyone else, he probably would've taken one of the offers up but with Geralt... there is no way he's sharing him with anyone. 

The witcher just laughs at that, his sharp canine slowly but surely driving Jaskier insane. He knows what those teeth feel like when they pierce through his skin and fuck, there must've been something in that liqueur because the thought alone makes him shudder. 

But then again, if that was the case, Geralt would've felt it on his lips.

There are so many people from all over Redania - perhaps even from Temeria or Kaedwen, Jaskier thinks - that it takes them a little while to find a place of their own, just far enough from the others for their conversations not to overlap. 

Four bottles of wine might be a little too much, Jaskier admits as they lay out a thick wool blanket of their own and settle down, the night air pleasantly cool on exposed skin; but then again, it's only two of those that are his. 

Geralt takes in a deep breath, his eyes closed blissfully.

"You know, one of the reasons that make me miss the North is Belleteyn," he says, opening his arms for Jaskier to settle in. "It's not like this in Toussaint."

He dips his head, leaving a gentle kiss in Jaskier's hair, and reaches for one of the wine bottles, either having chosen it prior or just not bothering with that. 

"We're not going to make toasts, are we?" he asks, handing the bottle to Jaskier for him to take the first swig. "I'm horrible at those."

The wine is sweet and tangy, just like Jaskier likes, and he decided to hold on to it, offering the witcher a different bottle. 

"Toasts?" he echoes. "What is this, a royal banquet? Of course not. We're going to play."

Geralt gives him a look that indicates his interest but says nothing. 

"The rules are more than simple," Jaskier says, sitting up to think better. "We each take turns asking each other questions - any questions - and if the one who's asked, answers, he drinks. If he doesn't, then it's the other way around."

Geralt chuckles at that but then just shrugs with one shoulder, which is as much of an agreement as Jaskier needs. 

"Whoever finishes their bottle faster, wins," he adds, eyes sparkling and impossibly blue, even in the uneven light of the bonfires. 

At that, the witcher suddenly seems much more interested. 

"And what does the winner get?"

There are countless things that rush through Jaskier's mind at that but even if he were able to choose immediately, it would've been foolish to take the option of choice away, so he just grins and says:

"A wish."

***

They flip a coin to determine who goes first. 

It lands on tails, making Jaskier beam a victorious smile at the witcher.

"Back in Kaer Morhen, when you were still in training, were you in love with anyone?" he inquires with the widest grin imaginable, having come up with the question hours prior. 

Geralt rolls his eyes dramatically and sighs but brings the bottle up to his lips. 

"There was another student, same age as me. We were often paired together for training and whatnot," he says. "I wouldn't say I was _in love with him_ but I certainly... had some sort of feeling for him. So much so that we've spent quite some time kissing in the darker corners of the keep."

Geralt chuckles, the memories bringing a smile to his face, and takes another swig of his wine, clearly not having paid enough attention to the rules. 

"Did you get any further than that?" Jaskier pushes, unable to do anything with his curiosity. 

The witcher just laughs, shaking his head.

"Against the rules, bard," he says, suddenly caring about those. "One question at a time."

Jaskier snorts to indicate his displeasure but the witcher doesn't seem to notice, watching couples dance around one of the bigger bonfires and thinking his own question over. 

"Have you ever slept with him?" he finally asks, turning to lock eyes with Jaskier. "My other version."

He doesn't mean it that way, Jaskier knows it. But the words still turn something inside him over and it echoes through his entire body like a dull, old ache.

"No," he says, quieter than he would've liked. "We've kissed a couple of times but that... That never meant the same thing to him as it did to me. Funny enough, the first time was on this exact night, a few years ago. I'll tell you about it when I get more drunk, if you want."

From the way Geralt looks ta him, Jaskier can tell he reads him like an open book. 

"Only if you want," the witcher finally says, leaning in to brush his lips over Jaskier's and make him smile. "And if not, I'm sure we'll find other means of keeping ourselves busy."

There's familiar teasing to his voice and Jaskier shoves him in the shoulder, breaking into laughter. 

Being with Geralt was... easy. 

Jaskier knew that if they were to stay together longer, it would've been different. These days that they've stolen were perfect because they've spent them in bed, having left everyday life beyond it. But it wasn't always going to be like that. 

Life had it's endless ups and downs, especially life on the Path. 

But somehow, deep in his chest, Jaskier felt like even in the hardest of times, they would've been able to find solace in each other. 

The way Geralt touched him, like he _treasured_ him, was unlike any other touch Jaskier's ever felt. The words he said to him, kind and genuine, said like he means them, meant to make Jaskier smile and avert his eyes, blushing despite himself.

The way Geralt held him at night, tucked safely against his chest, when they both, sated and exhausted, finally rested, having let go of each other.

The way he kissed him, so easy that it felt like they've been together forever. 

Maybe, Jaskier thinks, it really is Destiny. 

"It's my turn," he says instead, his grin somehow even wider than it was. "So, did you and that other Wolf get any further than kissing?"

Geralt groans, darting him a look that resonates through the bard's entire body in a wave of sweet weakness but that is not something he's ever going to admit. 

"You can always pass," the bard suggests, earning himself a glimpse of Geralt's sharp canine when he bares his teeth at him. 

"We have," he grits out and if Jaskier didn't know any better, he would've thought that the witcher is _embarrassed_. "We were both seventeen. It was summer and all our mentors were celebrating something, paying little to no attention to us. So we ran away, him and I. Spend the entire day in the fields, hidden from everyone else and I'm sure you know just how fast kisses can grow into something more."

There's the slightest hint of colour high on his cheekbones and Jaskier can't help but reach over and leave a kiss there, so very pleased with himself. 

"I'm not going to tell you the details," Geralt warns when Jaskier remains silent, looking at him expectingly. "It was... nice. Messy and hurried but nice."

And then, before Jaskier can as much as answer:

"Have _you_ ever slept with other witchers?"

Oh, gods, Jaskier thinks, I'm not drunk enough for this. 

For a second, he considers not answering at all but that would only make Geralt make up his own conclusions and that seems much worse than just telling the truth. And there is no way Jaskier's letting him win, either. So he steels himself, taking in a deep calming breath and taking a generous swig of his wine.

"I have," he finally says, pointedly not looking at the witcher. "Twice. Or, well- with _two different witchers_. The first one I met three, maybe four years ago. The second one - less than a year."

Geralt's brows lift in surprise and it's just now that Jaskier realises that it's not the question he'd been expecting to hear. 

"Tell me about them," he says, still. 

"Against the rules-" Jaskier tries, weakly.

"Not a question."

Jaskier knows that this is not a battle he's ever going to be able to win, because if there's something that he'd learned over the past couple of days is that if Geralt wants something, he will get it no matter what. And if Jaskier doesn't answer now, the witcher will find a way to get him to talk a little later. 

It's only fair, I suppose, Jaskier thinks, After all, he did tell me what I wanted to know. I brought this onto myself. 

"I met the first one a few days outside of Oxenfurt, in Corvo," he starts, turning to lie on his back, head resting in Geralt's lap. "I was supposed to play that evening but just couldn't concentrate, so I decided to go to the nearest valley to gather some herbs for a calming tea, instead. Gods, he scared the hell out of me when he just appeared out of nowhere, asking if I'd seen his horse," he laughs at his memories, closing his eyes blissfully when Geralt runs his fingers through his hair, sending a shiver down his neck. "To his credit, though, he did apologize and offer help with the herbs. We've spent a good couple of hours searching the valley, first for my herbs and then - for his horse. That's how I met Coёn."

Geralt's hand stills in his hair for a short second before he goes back to playing with the strands.

"Coёn?" he echoes.

"Ah, yes, I figured you know him. Because when I told him my name, he asked how's Geralt been lately. And when later on I told Geralt about him, he almost seemed jealous."

The witcher doesn't answer, just chuckles somewhere low in his throat, and Jaskier takes that as his cue to continue.

"He walked me back to the inn, saying that it's very late, and I ended up inviting him in. How could I not, really, with those smiles of his?" he says, propping himself up on one elbow to bring the bottle of wine to his lips, and though Geralt gives him a that's-against-the-rules look, he doesn't protest. "I offered I treat him to wine or ale to thank him for the help with the herbs and for walking me back. Before I really knew it, we left the inn's first floor and went up to my room to finish our drinks there. He turned out to be much more talkative than I would ever expect a witcher to be, telling me all sorts of stories about his hunts and his training in Kaer Seren and a thousand other things. By midnight we already moved from the floor to the bed and when he asked if he can kiss me, how could I say no?"

Memories of Coёn fill his chest with warmth and Jaskier can't help but wonder if he'll ever see him again. After all, he was planning to travel to Poviss one of these days. 

"We've spent a couple of weeks together-" he starts, only to be cut short.

"A couple of weeks?" Geralt asks, tipping Jaskier's chin up like he always does when he wants to attract his attention.

If Jaskier didn't know any better, he might've thought that Geralt is jealous. But the look in his eyes is something different. Something that Jaskier can't quite place.

"He was headed to Dorian," he says, shrugging with one shoulder. "We crossed Pontar together and I followed him all the way to Wyzima, where we parted. He wasn't like anyone else I knew, really. I don't know if all Griffins are like that but I don't think they are. He was so... gods, so _addicting._ Treated me like I mean the world to him, even though we barely knew each other."

He was almost like you, Jaskier thinks but doesn't say.

"He taught me half the things I know about hunting in those couple of weeks. Trained me until I was exhausted only to hold me in his arms and lick my wounds afterwards. When we parted, I missed him for a really long time."

Geralt smiles at him - a soft, understanding smile and brushes the bard's hair away from his face.

"You still miss him," he says and Jaskier knows it's not a question.

He chuckles, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.

"I do."

***

After that, they abandon the game for some time. 

Jaskier tells Geralt about those weeks spent with Coёn, and the witcher listens, sharing his own memories about him, making Jaskier snort and break into laughter when he tells him that Coёn had once lost a bet to Lambert and had to catch a harpy with his bare hands. To his credit, he did manage to. 

"Is that why you blushed back at the inn, when we talked about the School of the Griffin?" he asks suddenly. "Because you knew I know him?"

Jaskier is already through his first bottle of wine and it takes him a little while to recall what Geralt is talking about. 

"Oh, that," he finally giggles, waving a hand dismissively. "Yes. I wasn't exactly planning on telling you about him. Because, you know... you're close and all."

Geralt falls silent for a couple of seconds, and Jaskier decides that he is finally going to let him go but the witcher has other plans.

"And who was the second one?" he teases. "Eskel?"

Jaskier gasp in offence, sitting up and whirling around to look at the witcher who just grins at him, downing the last of his first bottle. 

"You!-" Jaskier hisses, pushing Geralt onto his back and straddling his hips, too drunk to pay any attention to the people around them. "How dare you!"

"Oh, well, you know, I just figured that if Coёn was the first witcher you've ever slept with, it's either Lambert or Eskel that followed, and judging by your taste, you'd prefer the latter," Geralt replies, casual as ever, his hands resting on Jaskier's thighs in such a familiar gesture that it's almost as if it's a habit.

Before Jaskier can say anything else or lean down to bite Geralt on the neck like he was planning to, there's a female voice right next to them and he snaps his head up. 

In front of him, stands a beautiful young woman, nothing but a long skirt with slits at either side that show her legs on, a flower crown in her long hair that falls all the way to her hips in luscious waves, half-covering her chest. 

"May the Gods bless you," she smiles and reaches into a basket on her arm to take out a small delicate vial and offer it to Jaskier. "And may your love be in their honour tonight."

A little hesitantly, the bard reaches over to take the vial from her hand. If the liquid inside has a colour, it's impossible to tell what it is in such low light. 

"No no," the woman smiles when Jaskier reaches for his coin. "Our merciful Gods don't need coin."

"How may I repay you, then?" Jaskier asks, a little unsteady when he leaves Geralt be and sits up on the blanket. 

She smiles again, warm and beautiful, kneeling next to him.

"With a kiss."

Oh, _oh._

Jaskier darts a look at Geralt but he just watches them curiously, and that's all the encouragement the bard needs to lean in and touch his lips to the woman's, the kiss sweet and gentle. 

It's only a second or two before she breaks away and runs her hand down his cheek, dark-brown eyes sparkling with the reflections of the fires. 

Before standing up, she steals a kiss from Geralt, as well, and then leaves, waving a hand goodbye and making her way through the valley towards the other fires. 

"Who was that?" Jaskier asks, turning to Geralt, the sweet taste of her kiss still lingering on his lips.

"I would've said a mage because my medallion reacted to her but then again, it might just be you," Geralt shrugs, taking the vial from Jaskier's hand and opening it to bring it up to his nose.

Over the days they've spent together, they still haven't figured out why Geralt's medallion reacts to him.

"What is it?" Jaskier asks, indicating to the vial with a nod.

Geralt chuckles.

"A love potion. Well, an aphrodisiac. Won't work on me but on you - yes."

Jaskier's heart skips a beat at that. He'd never been under an influence of a love potion but he'd heard enough stories to be able to imagine what it feels like. 

"And what do you suggest we do with it, witcher?" he asks, suddenly a little breathless.

Geralt hands him the vial, closing his hand around it.

"It's up to you."

***

They go through the remaining bottles just as quick. 

Jaskier manages to save himself from having to tell about the other witcher he'd slept with by promising that he will tell Geralt all about it some other time and that it's his turn to ask the question, anyway. Geralt doesn't argue.

When there's barely any wine left, it's Jaskier's turn again but his head is spinning so fast that it takes him a few very long seconds to think of anything. 

"Who's Ciri?" he finally asks, a little slurred, his head resting on the witcher's chest.

It's long past midnight, the sky above them full of stars that seem especially bright tonight. Jaskier barely remembers any constellations from his lectures at the Academy but it doesn't seem important when they whirl in front of his eyes in an endless dance. 

"Ciri?" Geralt echoes and Jaskier doesn't see his smile but he hears it in his voice. "She's my daughter."

Jaskier is drunk. Absolutely out of it. So much so that it only registers with him after a few seconds what exactly it is that Geralt said.

"Your daughter?" he asks, turning to look at him, brows pinched together in visible confusion. "I don't mean to be rude but aren't witchers- you know-"

"Sterile?" Geralt chuckles, still looking up at the stars. "We are. She's adopted. Or, well, it's a little more complicated than that."

Controlling his movements is _hard_ and even though Jaskier wants only to move a little closer, Geralt's hand on his waist tips him off balance and he ends up climbing right on top, their bodies fitting together perfectly. 

"Is she... the daughter of a woman you love?" he asks carefully, not sure if he's ready for the answer.

Geralt smiles again, just a hint of sadness to it, and pulls Jaskier closer to his chest.

"She is. But again, not by blood. It's a long story, Jask, and it's only yet to happen in this realm, I've got no right to tell you the future."

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jaskier can feel his heart sink. He was not ready for the answer.

Of course, it was foolish to think that Geralt's heart doesn't belong to someone even if they've spent these days together, even if back in his own realm he lives alone, but knowing that there is a woman that he loves... Jaskier hates himself for it but there is nothing he can do with the way his heart shatters in his chest. 

"Alright," he says softly, swallowing the tears that well up in his eyes despite his will. 

His scent's changed, he knows that. He'd spend enough time with witchers to know that. And it only takes a second for Geralt to pick up on it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, lifting his head to look at the bard. "Was it something I-"

Before he can finish, Jaskier is already kissing him, pushing him back to the ground. They don't have enough time left for Jaskier to allow his own emotions to ruin it. He wasn't supposed to have any expectations to begin with and now it's only his own fault if it hurts.

He deepens the kiss, licking into Geralt's mouth and breathing a soft moan into his lips when he answers, hands already searching for the laces of his silver shirt. 

By this time of night, no-one is paying attention to them, way too invested in their own lovers, and even if there is a couple of eyes on them, they're far enough from the other for it not to bother Jaskier. And, furthermore, it's not like he's never slept with anyone on Belleteyn without caring to find a more private place. That is, after all, the beauty of May Night. 

He kisses a line down Geralt's neck, eagerly finding his way to his collarbones and chest, open now that he pulls the edges of his shirt away. The witcher is covered in a pattern of lovebites and marks just as much as Jaskier and though he heals much quicker, most of them are still visible, standing out deep-purple against his otherwise pale skin. It's a wonderful look on him. 

Wine makes him impatient, Jaskier knows that, but he doesn't care, dipping his head to bite a mark onto Geralt's shoulder, right where it meets his neck, and roll his hips against the witcher's, tearing a choked moan from his lips. _Fuck,_ Jaskier's going to miss that sound.

"Jask-" Geralt calls, shifting to cup the sharp of the bard's jaw with his hand and lock eyes with him. "Jask, slow down. It's the portion talking."

Jaskier shakes his head and smiles, tilting his head to press a kiss to Geralt's palm and find his way back to his lips.

"I didn't take it."

***

By the time they let go of each other, the night is almost over. 

They slowly make their way back to the inn in the pale blue-green light of dawn, past endless others, most of them either asleep on their blankets, safe and warm in each other's arms or still drinking at talking, smiling at Jaskier and the witcher as they walk by.

It's quiet. 

The type of quiet that only ever finds a place in the North at dawn after May Night. There is nothing Jaskier loves more. 

They find the inn empty and silent, as well, all the guest either asleep in their rooms or still in the valleys, even the rowdy company that had occupied one of the corners every night for more than a week now nowhere to be seen. 

Jaskier is still pleasantly drunk and the stairs take him a little longer to deal with than usual but he doesn't trip as much as once, and when they get to their shared room, he knows that he'll be able to fall asleep easily, even with his head spinning. 

Once he pulls his shirt off over his head, he feels a kiss on his shoulder and turns around only to have Geralt wrap his arms around his waist, his eyes so bright that it makes Jaskier's heart stutter. 

"Thank you for this week," Geralt says softly, almost a whisper. "It was truly incredible."

Jaskier's heart skips a painful beat. No, he thinks, No, not now, I'm not ready. 

"It was," he smiles instead, leaning in when Geralt reaches to kiss him, slow and tender. 

They stay like that for a while, unable to break away from each other for more than a shallow breath but eventually, Geralt breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to Jaskier's, breathing the same air.

"Let's go to bed," he finally says, just as soft. "I have to leave in the morning."

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the way his heart shatters for the second time of the night. 

It was going to hurt, he knew that from the very start. And now the only thing he can do is take it without tears. Not in front of Geralt, at least. 

He smiles again, though he knows that the witcher can see right through it, and leaves one last kiss on his lips before breaking away and taking a breath. 

"Wake me up before you go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you wanna read a little something on Jaskier/Coёn, I've got a bit of a [treat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432476/chapters/71699718) for you

**Author's Note:**

> dear hearts, if you have any questions/tropes/prompts/theories regarding this story, please, feel free to send them to me over on my tumblr @longing-and-heartache-and-lust, I'd love to see and reply to all of them  
> I also post little sneak-peaks for upcoming chapters there, so if you want to be the first to read them, you have my warmest welcome


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